


The Retreat

by Boi_Ginny



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Begging, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Blood and Violence, Break Up Talk, Bucky Barnes & Wanda Maximoff Friendship, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Bucky Barnes's Trigger Words, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Time, First Time for Everything Fest, Fitz-Simmons if you squint, Fluff, Happy Ending, Insecure Bucky Barnes, M/M, Memories, Negotiations, Non-Penetrative Sex, Oral Sex, POV Bucky Barnes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Poetry, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Prayer, Protective Steve, Protective Steve Rogers, Rain, Religion, Rough Body Play, SHIELD Agent Bucky Barnes, Shower Sex, Smut, Steve Rogers's Birthday, Teasing, Telepathic Wanda Maximoff, The Retreat Safe House (Marvel), Wanda Maximoff Helps Bucky Barnes Recover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 05:20:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 103,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13540569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boi_Ginny/pseuds/Boi_Ginny
Summary: After The Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes is captured and kept at SHIELD’s Retreat, under the watchful eye of Steve Rogers.





	1. Mea Culpa

**Author's Note:**

> I’ll be honest, this came from two ideas I just had to marry. 1) Steve and Bucky stay at the Retreat. 2) The serum doesn’t prevent Steve from getting scars, and Bucky has to see them. Bucky’s reaction to seeing Steve’s scars, in the setting of the Retreat, is the purpose of Chapter One.
> 
> I erred on the side of caution with the tags. Tiny trigger warning for period specific unhappy use of the word “queer.” I felt it was appropriate but it’s not very nice.

He dragged the man out of the river. And he ran.

He is in Mexico when SHIELD finds him. In a tent on the beach. Quiet. Alone.

He hears the agents before they are on him but they circle him into the ocean. Not an escape. He can swim. But swim where? Swim faster than a quinjet? He could fight past them, there are only six of them. He could take them all out, even unarmed. Ha. Unarmed. Get it? But the quinjet is still a problem.

And he doesn’t do that anymore. He’s had a peaceful year. If it was his last, so be it. He isn’t going to start killing again to protect whatever is left. The agents storm down the beach toward him, approaching eagles with guns drawn, and he knits his fingers behind his head, waiting.

He feels the agents’ shots impact but not the rending flesh that should follow. That’s confusing. Then his legs are not responding and his face meets the sand. Then his face is not responding and the sun fades into darkness. Oh. Tranquilizers. Great.

He sleeps. He is warm, so he dreams. He never dreamed when he was cold. The winter was empty. But on the beach, in the drugs, and wherever they are taking him, he dreams. Dreams or memories? Waking will confirm. Every day brings new memories. Dreams bring more. Some are unsure. Dreams of memories, or memories of dreams?

He dreams of the man on the bridge. Who spoke his name and brought him back to life. Who was somehow the little boy who always had the best ideas when they played pretend. The man on the bridge was a playground commander of battalions of little boys. With a vision that brought others to follow. And a voice that must be obeyed. His mission on the helicarrier was a little man he grew up catching fists for. When he and the bullies got bigger and his mission hadn’t. His target was the sweetness he had waiting for him when he came home. And then his captain, because the super soldier still had the best ideas, even though the war wasn’t pretend and he wasn’t little anymore. The man he watched fall watched him fall. The man he dove in after would have done the same for him. The man he pulled from the river was with him ‘til the end of the line.

Steve. The man he protected. The man he saved. The man he loved.

Drugs wear off. He wakes lying on a cot in a stark white room that shudders around him. He’s not bound and he’s still got all his own clothes. Well, not really his clothes are they, the clothes he stole to replace the black leathers, but nobody will miss a white t-shirt and jeans from a Wal-Mart. SHIELD didn’t even take the shoes. They had a lot of faith in those tranquilizers didn’t they. He could’ve been hiding anything in his shoes. Wasn’t, but, you know. Could’ve been.

The sky streaks past upwards in the window, falling. The room is falling? He sits up. His head spins and he falls back again. Guess their faith in their tranquilizers wasn’t misplaced.

There is a rushing sound, and the thunder of jets. Trees appear outside the window. The room is landing. The room is a vessel. It jolts to a stop and the door hisses open.

Can he sit up this time? Yes. His eyes follow his commands, he isn’t still dizzy. Can he stand? Yes. The drugs wore off fast. God they left a hell of a headache though.

He crouches low, makes himself a smaller target, and leans out the doorway. Outside there is grass and pine trees. And a small lake. Mountains in the distance. The sun is going down behind them, it’s nearly night. Slept a long time, or flew a long way. Possibly both. 

Wherever he is it’s still summer. It’s bleeding hot. And thick dark clouds gather on the opposite horizon forecasting a storm later. He can smell the rain rolling in on the wind that invades the vessel and tangles his hair, the same smell the world over, dark earth and clean water somehow making a smell that was almost edible and always exciting. He loves the rain. Maybe he’s still asleep. Maybe the place is a dream. If it is, maybe it’s a nice one.

Closer to there’s a gravel path up to a cabin, and that looks fake. The exterior is wood but it’s structured like steel. It’s pretending and not very well. A man stands in the path between the vessel room and the cabin, a giant blond in a polo shirt and Dockers that probably would have fit him when he was a teenager but show at the seams around him now. 

Oh, right. Steve. Huh. He’d only seen Steve out of uniform once since the serum. On the bridge. It suits him. At least the polo does. It looks like it had just been painted on. Jesus.

Steve approaches the room with his arms crossed. He doesn’t look happy. That’s understandable. He has the kind of look that has the potential to be angry or afraid or relieved depending on what comes out of the door. A waiting look.

Steve says, “Bucky?”

Yes? Yes. His name is Bucky. Because Steve says it is. And Steve is always right.

Bucky rises to his feet and responds.

“Yeah.”

The waiting look keeps waiting. But Bucky doesn’t have anything else to say.

“You okay?” Steve says.

Yes? Yes. A quick internal diagnostic shows SHIELD didn’t do him any harm. Aside from the headache he’s not in any pain, other than the normal. Their drugs didn’t interfere with the functionality of his arm and left him otherwise intact. He nods and responds.

“Yeah.”

A bird calls and takes wing from one tree to another. Others follow, pretty streaks of color through the air. Tree branches rustle in a rush of wind. Bucky supposes he has to get out of the room eventually, so he steps onto the gravel. It feels as real as it looks and crunches under his shoes. The balance of evidence leans toward a true experience and away from a dream. So. SHIELD didn’t want him dead. SHIELD tranquilized him and put him in a white room with jets and brought him… here.

Where is here?

Ask Steve. He’d know.

“What is this place?” Bucky asks.

“The Retreat,” Steve says. “SHIELD facility.”

“Oh.”

No data on this. Nothing he’d ever been told about. But Steve doesn’t look like he’s lying. Steve is a crappy liar. And maybe SHIELD was being ironic but if the place looks nice and it’s called the Retreat maybe it’s a nice place? Steve is here. That’s a step in the right direction.

The room begins to rumble behind him. He darts away from it as jets fire again and it takes off straight up. High above the air fuzzes around it, a digital flash. Forcefield. He is trapped. Maybe not such a nice place.

It’s a small area of fuzz with hardly a curve. Assume the forcefield is a sphere. It’s a large sphere. Is the cabin in the middle? Probably. Draw a line from the cabin to the fuzz. Do the math. How far out does the forcefield extend?

How far could he run?

The treeline is a dash away. Can Steve run him down? Bucky assumes he can’t. Steve’s lungs don’t work, not to mention his legs. Skinny kid, can’t keep up. Bucky jogs when Steve runs alongside so Steve doesn’t have to strain. 

But no. Captain America. Captain America can keep up. Captain America can run down the Winter Soldier. Will Steve run down Bucky?

And what would be the point? Run into the forcefield and then what? Get caught anyway. Might as well skip it. Conserve resources.

Spent too long thinking anyway. Steve is too close. Could grab him if he wanted to. Doesn’t. Steve inclines his head back over his shoulder.

“Come on,” Steve says. “Come inside.”

Steve turns back to the cabin. Something twitches in Bucky’s arm, a remnant of a directive that sees Steve’s retreating back as a weakness and an opening. But he stills it. No more missions. He follows Steve.

Steve turns the lights on in the cabin, revealing more of the real-fake in the interior. Wood paneling on the walls can’t help but show that it is covering something else, something stronger. Light doesn’t pass through the windows the way it should, they aren’t really glass. Living room and kitchen. Short hallway with three doors off the main space. Assume two bedrooms and one bathroom. One exit to the outside. Easy to barricade, easy to defend.

But not easy to fight inside if it comes to that. It’s too small and crammed with furniture and every flat surface is covered with books. Dodging around the couch would mean running into an end table or a bookshelf and slipping on literature. Even he would break an ankle. Note to self: If you have to fight Steve again, do it outside.

“You can think of this as quarantine only comfortable,” Steve says. “Unless you fall asleep on the couch. I don’t recommend it. Banner built this place to contain the Hulk when he needed some time to decompress and he ruined the couch. But he built the walls tough and the atmosphere is soothing.”

That explained the real-fake of the place. The couch looks real as hell though. Hard to have a fake couch look that lived in, that worn and sprung in the middle. There’s data on the Hulk. Surprised there’s even a couch left at all. Hope he doesn’t show up while they’re here.

There’s a duffle bag on the couch, open. It’s black with the SHIELD eagle embroidered on it. Probably not Steve’s. There’s another on the floor, the green Army type, closed. That’s probably Steve’s. Bucky pauses and inspects the open duffle. T-shirts and sweats, folded, all blue, with the eagle in white. Socks. Shorts. Looks like what they’d give recruits to turn out for gym. He looks up and around. Is there someone else here?

“They left those for you,” Steve says, answering the question he didn’t ask. “They oughta fit.”

How the hell would he know?

“Oh,” Bucky says.

There’s a few of each item of clothing. And yeah okay they look like they’ll probably fit. Maybe they asked Steve the size he was wearing and went up one. Man how does he even get around dressed like that… Bucky can watch all the muscles that have to get out of the way before other muscles can move his arms, crossing and uncrossing awkwardly on his chest. Mother of God he even makes awkward look good.

“SHIELD agents stay here sometimes, when they need to get away,” Steve says. “Or when SHIELD thinks they need to be… contained.”

There’s a toothbrush hiding in the bottom of the duffle. SHIELD expects him to be here for a while. SHIELD thinks the Winter Soldier needs to be contained. SHIELD is probably right.

“Coffee’s on,” Steve says.

It’s true. He can smell it. There’s a pot on the counter and mugs next to the pot, and a spoon and a jar labeled “sugar.” Sugar goes in coffee. Lots of sugar goes in coffee. He remembers. And Steve makes fun of him for taking it so sweet. He feels himself smile, his body remembering happiness and not asking his permission before showing it.

Steve narrows his eyes. He doesn’t know why Bucky is smiling and he’s suspicious. In fairness there are any number of offensive uses for sugar. It burns well. But Steve thought of those. Bucky just thought about the coffee. Ah well. Steve can be wrong sometimes. Bucky spoons sugar into a mug and hopes Steve is going to make fun of him. He doesn’t.

The fridge opens. It’s real. It’s full of food. Bucky retrieves cream and puts it back after he pours some into the mug. Steve won’t need it, Steve takes coffee black.

Steve glances around the room, fidgeting in the silence. He’ll fill it. Steve can’t sit still and sit quiet. He’ll talk. Bucky fills the mug the rest of the way with coffee, and waits.

“They turned the power and the water back on,” Steve says. “It ain’t the Ritz but it’s liveable.”

Bucky reaches up with his left hand and taps on the window over the sink. Under his steel fingers it goes “bonk” instead of “clink.” Sounds like a polycarbonate. There’s no catch, they don’t open. Suspicions confirmed. Comfortable security.

It’d be nice to open a window though. Summer in a stuffy cabin does not sound appealing.

“You’ve got about a mile in every direction until you hit the perimeter fence,” Steve says.

Good information. Not that it’s going to make much difference.

“There’s not much out there. Banner built this place as close to the middle of nowhere as he could find,” Steve says.

He’s just filling silence now. He’s stepping in little circles and fiddling with his shirtsleeves. That twitchy look is starting to get to Bucky. Steve is wound tight as a watch spring and the tension hums in Bucky’s ears and makes his head throb. Well, he’s got questions, and providing the answers will give Steve some outlet.

“Why are you here?” Bucky asks.

“I spent some time here after I came out of the ice. I know solitaire gets real old real fast.”

Now Steve is lying. Lying by telling the truth. Sounds like he did stay here, and yeah solitaire gets boring, but that’s not why he’s here. Bucky walks around the counter and Steve’s eyes fly to the controls on the exterior door. Dammit. That stings. Captain America can run down the Winter Soldier. He’s here for security. That should have been obvious.

Bucky sits down with a cup of cream and sugar that smells a little like coffee. Steve’s sketchbook is open on the table with a pencil across it. Looks like he was just practicing with the stonework of the fireplace. Bucky picks it up. Gotta get that look off his face somehow. Fear on Steve, yeah, that’s familiar, but Steve isn’t supposed to be afraid of _him_.

“You still draw?” Bucky says.

“When I can,” Steve says.

Bucky tries to remember the smile you put on when you want to make a talented friend feel talented even though you have no solid basis for judging that talent. It’s an old smile for him, in daily use in Brooklyn but it’s been a while, and he has to search for it in long term storage. There are eyebrows involved. He thinks he finds it and puts it on.

Steve rolls his eyes. Bucky’s smile feels better on his face after that.

“Kinda looking forward to being here again, actually,” Steve says. “Haven’t had a quiet minute for a while.”

Quiet isn’t all it’s cracked up to be but Bucky nods anyway. He had been there for some of the noise in Steve’s life and that had been… awful. At least Steve was out of it for a while. Steve is as protected as Bucky, for as long as that lasts. Bucky sets the sketchbook down on the bookshelf by the table. Moves the pencil with it. Out of the way.

Steve pours his own coffee and stands by the counter. He still takes coffee black. Memories confirmed.

“What am I supposed to do?” Bucky says.

Steve shrugs. “Read. Roast marshmallows. Cut down a tree and build a boat, they don’t care. There’s no real surveillance.”

No surveillance? Bullshit. Gonna check on that story.

Read? Could do that. There are enough books here, some of them must be good. Bucky reaches out to the bookshelf and retrieves a slim volume. Opening it reveals English, lots of spaces, extraneous punctuation.

_“I’m Nobody! Who are you?  
Are you – Nobody – too?”_

That’s familiar. He looks at the cover again. Emily Dickinson. He remembers. Weird little woman with strange wonderful words. Singsong words of hope and death. Steve just thought she was strange. Bucky thought she was wonderful.

“Dickinson?” Bucky says.

Steve looks down into his mug. He licks his lips before he responds, and when he does he says, “Yeah. It’s almost like someone knew you were coming, Buck.”

“Oh.”

Steve remembered. Of course Steve remembered, Steve’s memory was fine. Probably only felt like… oh Jesus what’s the math on this one… four years ago for Steve? Relative time? Lucky bastard.

_“Then there’s a pair of us!  
Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!”_

“Thanks,” Bucky says.

“Yeah.”

Bucky flips through the book with his left hand, fielding the mug with his right. Anything fragile always goes in his right now. Always.

_How dreary – to be – Somebody!_  
_How public – like a Frog –_    
_To tell one’s name – the livelong June –_  
_To an admiring Bog!_

The coffee is pretty good. It wasn’t worth getting on the beach. It has no caloric value and a drug as feeble as caffeine has no effect. Not worth stealing just for the taste. And he hadn’t had it in the winter. They wouldn’t waste comfort on the asset. Last time must have been… with the Army. And soldiers got crap for coffee.

But they’d started him drinking it in the first place. Memories drift up from his tongue. Parents at home didn’t drink it. He joined up after he graduated, had coffee on base. National Guard. Base and home, base and home, back and forth. Got used to filling the mug with anything other than coffee first because it was so bad. Came home and did the same thing. He didn’t know coffee didn’t always taste like that. He’d figured that out with Steve. Who saved up and bought coffee good enough to drink black. If you were into that kind of thing.

It’s still pretty good. Tastes like safe mornings out of uniform.

“How long?” Bucky asks Steve.

“Long enough to decide whether or not you’re going to be a threat,” Steve says. “Sorry, Buck, that’s less vacation and more prison. Not gonna lie to you.”

“Agents on their way?”

“Their science division will be here tomorrow. They’ll run some tests, if you’ll let them.”

“If I’ll let them?”

Steve straightens his shoulders and stands up in the full impressive posture of the Captain. He doesn’t have to say, I’ll make you. He doesn’t have to say, I’ll stop you if you hurt them. He doesn’t know that he won’t have to. SHIELD scientists? Tests? Old familiar territory. Ready to comply. Relax, Steve, before you tear your own shirt off. Bucky shakes his head.

“Why am I here?” Bucky asks.

Steve takes a deep breath. Long story. Bucky closes the book. Steve talks, and Bucky listens. 

Hydra went looking for the Winter Soldier. Hydra found him. Some new head named Grant Ward had a bright idea. No data on this. Never heard the name before. Grant Ward came to reclaim Hydra’s asset. But SHIELD was watching. Someone named Coulson. Steve grinds his teeth saying the name. He has some data on Coulson. Dead SHIELD agent, nothing to do with the asset, listed as a potential complication. No idea why Steve would care.

SHIELD got to the beach first. And SHIELD recognized the remains of sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. His face is a matter of historical record. First on the wall of fallen SHIELD agents at the Academy though he’d been long dead when it was built and didn’t think he’d been working for the SSR in the war anyway. He was just following Steve. When SHIELD recognized him on the beach, they called Steve. And Steve told them to bring him here.

Count your blessings, Steve says. You’re here in the house that Banner built instead of locked up in a SHIELD containment cell or dancing around on Hydra’s strings again. Count your blessings.

But he was on a beach. It was nice there.

It’s dark here now. The mountains have disappeared from the window. All it shows is a reflection of the back of Steve’s head. The rain is starting, pinging into the windows, and thunder booms in waves across the unseen sky. And hey at least he’ll be under a roof instead of a tent. Won’t have to get wet if he doesn’t want to.

Bucky finishes the mug of coffee and doesn’t have anything else to say. Should probably say “Thanks” again. That’s appropriate, right? Steve didn’t want to see him in a cell and got him brought to the mountains instead. He tilts the mug at Steve.

“Thanks,” Bucky says.

“Yeah.”

Steve holds his coffee but he hasn’t really been drinking it. His hands are shaking. Silence is painful. That’s not right. The Winter Soldier is comfortable in silence. But Bucky twangs with it. Nothing else to say. Too much to say and no good way to get started. _Hey, man, so about that time I tried to kill you…_ Fuck.

Can’t just leave it though. Can’t just leave it forever if they’re both stuck here. There’s no good way so start it a bad way. Just… say something?

“Hey, Steve…”

There’s more after that. It lines itself up in his head, starting with “I’m sorry” and going from there. It’s all there and getting started was the hard part.

“I’m…”

But Steve stands away from the counter and turns his back, pours the cold unconsumed coffee down the sink. He clears his throat and looks up out the window and runs the faucet to rinse the mug. Overlaying sound so Bucky can’t speak.

“Bedrooms are down the hall. Pick one, doesn’t matter,” Steve says.

He’s not listening. He doesn’t want to listen. Alright. Bucky can take a hint. He nods.

“Alright.”

No need to go into the bedroom right now. Change the subject. Change the subject. It’s late, what time is it, there’s no clock? Weird. Maybe it helped Banner relax. But it’s definitely late enough to be hungry. He is hungry, he must have been in the air all day.

“What’s there to eat?” Bucky asks.

“What do you want?” Steve asks.

Invalid question. Can’t answer. Whatever is available.

“What is there?” Bucky asks again.

“Little of this, little of that. They stocked up before I got here.”

Steve opens the freezer. He rustles around in it and retrieves meat in plastic wrap. He waves it in Bucky’s general direction. Looks like hamburger.

“Burgers are easy,” Steve says.

Is hamburger. Is easy. Bucky nods. He can trust Steve to make burgers. Things get much more complicated in that kitchen, though, and he’s gonna have to step in. Steve’s genius ended at the second line of a recipe. He bangs pans around and Bucky opens the book again. It’s rude to read at the table but it’s easier to read than think.

_“If ever the lid gets off my head_  
_And lets the brain away_  
_The fellow will go where he belonged -_  
_Without a hint from me,”_

Steve is looking at him, out of the corner of his eye. He’s staring. He looks back down to the pan when Bucky looks up. Bucky looks back down to the book. And feels Steve’s eyes on him a moment later. Dammit. So we’re doing this dance, hm? Great.

_“And the world – if the world be looking on –_  
_Will see how far from home_  
_It is possible for sense to live_  
_The soul there – all the time.”_

The kitchen smells like food in short order. Oughta get up and get plates. Steve is gonna expect them to eat at the table like civilized folk. He would. Bucky pushes back from the table and Steve flinches. God. Dammit. But he doesn’t flinch again when Bucky clatters plates down from the cabinet even though they’re louder than the chair. Maybe he realized. He’s just wound up. He’ll get it. Bucky doesn’t do that anymore.

Wonder if SHIELD left buns. If buns then no silverware necessary for this meal. Where would they be? He strafes around Steve in the kitchen to rifle through the pantry. Yep, hamburger buns. Holy shit and potato chips, somebody deserves a promotion. Fuck yes. Toss those on the table.

Ketchup? Back to the fridge. Steve steps forward when Bucky moves past, and it’s not a jump it’s just a step, and that’s better. Little things. Maybe it’ll just be little things, and they’ll be okay eventually.

Ketchup, mustard, relish, mayonnaise, hot sauce, pickles, good Lord how many meals did they think he was going to have here? Did they always stock for a family of twelve whenever anyone stayed here? Probably. SHIELD likes their overkill. Leave it, no sense in hauling it all out to the table. Steve turns the fire off under the pan and they can plate up burgers with whatever they want out of the fridge.

Steve does sit at the table. And Bucky sits on the other side. He keeps the book out. They’re not going to talk anyway. And they don’t. But the burgers are good. Maybe Steve made burgers for the Avengers. Wouldn’t that be a sight.

_“We do not know the time we lose –_  
_The awful moment is_  
_And takes its fundamental place_  
_Among the certainties – ”_

The first chips out of a freshly opened bag are heaven on earth. Real food. God damn. Fuck it, hamburger is cheap and so are Lays, have two of those and half the bag of these. It’s gone quick. And a full stomach does the work that would take days of conscious effort by a person to change a mood. Bucky’s shoulders relax and his eyes focus.

_“A firm appearance still inflates_  
_The card – the chance – the friend –_  
_The spectre of solidities_  
_Whose substances are sand – ”_

Steve is still alternating staring at his plate and staring at Bucky. But he’s actually eating. That’s better. Little things. And maybe if he’s got his mouth full he won’t be able to stop Bucky from talking…

Steve’s phone rings as Bucky is opening his mouth to try again. He looks at it and says, “Gotta take this,” and stands from the table. Foiled again.

“Rogers,” Steve says, and walks outside. He hangs back on the porch out of the rain and speaks to the unheard response. Bucky takes his empty plate to the kitchen and leaves Steve’s. He wasn’t finished.

“Agent Johnson?” Steve says. “Oh, I’m sorry. Agent May. We haven’t met.”

Checking in with SHIELD. Fair enough. Without Steve’s eyes on him Bucky maps the main room and listens with half an ear to the outside conversation.

“So far so good,” Steve says. “The place is as nice as I left it, thank you.”

The books are all real, the furniture is all second or third hand by the looks of it, the walls are thicker than cabin walls have any right to be. Might take those apart later.

“Resigned. Better than I expected,” Steve says.

There aren’t any wires or cameras. The edges and corners are clear. Steve said, but it’s still surprising. This makes the short list of all time weirdest prisons.

“Well he still drinks coffee like my grandmother so I’m gonna say maybe,” Steve says.

Steve’s sketchbook is still out on the bookshelf, open to the drawing of the fireplace, and Bucky knows he shouldn’t but Steve never minded before. Anything he didn’t want Bucky to see he kept under his bed. Because it was private or because it was embarrassing or because he was Steve, who knew. Bucky wouldn’t look under his bed. But anything Steve left out was fair game.

Gramma Rogers. She was a sweet old bird. There was nothing she didn’t know about spoiling good little boys who did housework for her. Or whipping their butts at rummy. One game Bucky ever won against her. One. And she let him crow about it for a week. That’s nice to remember.

“And I appreciate that,” Steve says. “But when your agents get here tomorrow I’m going to have some questions of my own.”

Bucky flicks a couple of pages back. The city skyline of New York. A tree and a little bench in a park. A rhinoceros with a goatee in a suit of armor. Hey these are pretty good. A vase of flowers, gotta have one of those don’t you.

“Understood,” Steve says. “But that won’t be necessary. Not to put too fine a point on it but none of your agents would survive. I might.”

True. Fair. Also, ouch.

And then Bucky’s face is staring up at him from the page, from the past, the _long_ past. Sheesh, that hair… That shirt, he must have been… Jesus, all dressed up for church, that was high school. Before he’d even been in uniform and stopped going to church with the folks. And Steve drew him smiling. Steve remembered him smiling.

“Thank you Agent May. I will.”

Bucky drops the pages to hide the face. That’s what you get for snooping. You find shit you didn’t want to find. God, was that how Steve remembered him…

The cabin is too small. The walls are too close in. Steve is going to come back inside and there is just not going to be space for both of them and the huge silence. The door opens and the watch spring powers his limbs into action and propels him out the door, past Steve coming in.

“Gonna take a walk,” he says before Steve can ask.

“It’s pouring,” Steve says.

“I know,” Bucky says, and steps off the porch into it. 

He doesn’t look but he can imagine Steve still staring at the back of his head so he runs through the darkness. Turns to the left of the cabin and takes off toward the mountain range in the distance, lit now only by the moon. There’s not enough space to get tired running, not for him, he knows he’s only got a mile but he’s going to use it all.

The storm is a peaceful noise, blasting away in the sky. Better than the war of silence inside. Gods alive Steve drew him smiling and balked when he smiled in the cabin. That’s not fair.

His hair streams out behind him and rain runs in tickling patterns through the stubble on his cheeks like it’s trying to draw him now and show him how different he looks. He can’t get far enough away from the sketchbook.

Read? Roast marshmallows? The fuck? Who the fuck does SHIELD think he is? Who the fuck does Steve think he is? SHIELD thinks he’s a fallen hero but they know better now. Steve thinks he’s smiling with his hair slicked down and his collar straight and he’d better fucking know better now. They should’ve killed him on the beach. Would’ve been cheaper than feeding him.

He doesn’t stop until he hits the forcefield. And it doesn’t exactly hurt but it’s disorienting. Like a solid wall of cold electrified air smacking him in the face. It blows him backwards on his ass and the falling water holds him down, pounding on his body, and he doesn’t fight it. He lays out spread eagled to the sky in welcome to the storm if it wants him, if it’s gonna talk to him.

When did Steve draw that? Last week? Last year? Before the fight or after? Does it matter? Yeah it fucking matters.

The rain is a welcome respite from the heat, even if it is warm summer rain with a balmy wind turning the soaking fall into an embrace. Thunder booms and he thinks he can feel that too, pressing him down into the ground with the trees and the mountains themselves and melding it all together into one solid piece. Bucky lets it hold him, concentrates on the fabric clinging tighter to his body and the caress of the droplets on his face. Every little smack is a jolt of electricity to the lights behind his eyes, the connection to sense and self. The constant stream maintains visibility and Bucky closes his eyes so he can see.

He remembers going to church with Steve. He remembers almost everything now, or at least he can’t find any major gaps anymore. He remembers getting dressed and helping Steve on with his tie and knowing Steve could do it himself and letting himself hope for something when Steve kept asking him to do it for him anyway, because it meant standing close and running fingers under his collar and feeling the warmth through his shirt. He remembers cinching the knot too tight because he was trying so hard not to wrap his hand around that long delicate neck and pull him in.

The weight of each wide drop falling from such a height is a little painful, each of them, and it’s a good and calming pain, distracting, driving through his hair and stinging his face. It rings on his left arm and spatters on his right and that is the only thing he hates. It isn’t the same on both sides. He lost a whole side to the feel of rain. He can’t feel the trickle of the water either, can’t feel skin absorb it, can’t feel wet on his left side. He tucks his left arm behind him in the grass. If it’s covered he won’t notice the difference.

Does Steve still remember? Does he remember it the same? Or does he only remember wrapping his arm around the Winter Soldier’s throat in the struggle? Gotta know. Gotta ask.

It’s not uncomfortable in the grass. It’s soft and getting softer under the storm. Shouldn’t sleep outside, should he? Avoid, evade, leave Steve in the silence if he wants it. Nah, probably shouldn’t. There’s a fine line between peace and hypothermia. Even if it means going back to the cabin and tiptoeing into a bedroom and sleeping warm and dreaming, knowing what he will find in sleep that he can’t have waking. 

Steve drew him smiling. He would’ve been hunched over that drawing in his lap with his hair in his face, a pretty golden frame Bucky had always longed to tuck back behind his ear so he could see Steve’s smile. Never had. Sleeping alone and dreaming but oh not alone is all he’s ever had with Steve. Dreams of memories of dreams. No real memories associated. But he’d dreamed it for years. Ages. Until he started sleeping in the cold.

Why couldn’t they have found him in the winter? He could have slept soundly.

If Bucky isn’t going to sleep out here then he has to get up. And he can, the rain has done its job, washing away blood and pencil together, for now. All he has, is for now.

Who does Steve think he is?

Damn that little twerp, he’s gonna listen.

It’s easy to get back to the cabin. Stand up. Turn your back on the forcefield. And run.

He kicks his shoes off and shakes the worst of the water onto the porch and still pauses with his hand on the doorknob remembering how to walk through a door when there is no threat on the other side and he isn’t one either. Don’t bother to be quiet, don’t bother to be slow, don’t flinch when the catch clicks, it isn’t giving you away. Just… walk through the door.

It’s still hard. Thunder rolls behind him and that makes it easier. Feels like cover.

He closes the door behind him and hears a door open in front of him. Steve walks out of the bathroom in wet hair and pajama pants. Place smells like soap. That’s kinda funny. The duffle bags are gone from the couch too. Guess he picked bedrooms for them. He’s made himself right at home. Makes sense, he’s been here before. Makes sense. Must be nice. 

Bucky sees him but then, Bucky looks at him. You’d think the difference between Steve’s torso barely concealed by flimsy cotton and Steve’s torso bare would be negligible but… no. No. He shines. The light coruscates over shower damp skin. The Avengers had put the final spit and polish on his musculature. Steve is sunlight and he is warmth and oh, shit, no wonder it’s so hot in here. Only half the weather. The other half is the much modified Steve Rogers striding about and taking up all the air in the room. If steam starts to rise from Bucky’s sodden clothes he will be the last person to be surprised.

Too much to say. Gotta get started. Third time’s the charm. Just hope Steve can’t hear what he’s doing to Bucky in the way he says his name.

“Steve?”

Steve turns. He’s loose and easy and Bucky has been dropped from a great height into a memory of a dream. Steve tosses his hair in his hand to settle it, flicking water through his fingers. He needs a haircut, he’s way out of regulation. He lifts his eyebrows, acknowledging the address. He’s facing Bucky square and he’s perfect and Bucky loses the thread. Can only stare.

But perfection is marred when Bucky looks again because the shirt hadn’t hidden much but it’d hidden the scars. Scars Bucky knows the placement of. Remembers the causing of. The white round _Jesus no_ bullet holes and long jagged lines of _fuck no fuck NO_ knife gauges across his chest and Bucky can still feel the hilt of the knife in his own hand.

The clarity of the rainstorm turns crystalline and shatters. Language blurs. Language leaves. A dozen languages, gifts from missions, a dozen words for “scar,” a dozen words for “sorry.” None are available. The whole story is there, written on Steve’s skin, all at once, and there are no words for that. None.

Something shows on his face, it must, because when Steve looks at him he’s horrified whatever he sees. Steve follows the line of Bucky’s eyes and looks down at himself and curses. He knows. He’s angry with himself. He says something else, probably “I’m sorry,” but Bucky is beyond noticing. He did that. All that. Damaged Captain America. Hurt Steve. He did. His fault.

The roar of the rain outside is the jets of the helicarrier. Thunder cracks and it’s a gunshot. The click when Bucky’s knees hit the floorboards is an empty chamber.

Words return. Hardly language. Rote recitation. Not speaking, just letting words escape. The right words, words he didn’t really understand when he learned them by sound, learned the meaning of later. Hydra had no use for Latin. But the church recitation comes unbidden and the words spill from Bucky’s lips as he raises his hands.

“Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper Virgini…”

Steve’s eyes fly wide. He remembers. Bucky taught him. Steve’s tongue tripped over languages. Bucky taught him, syllable by syllable, so Steve has heard this recitation from Bucky a thousand times. But he has never heard this shaking whisper. He has never heard Bucky in anguish.

There are no angels. There are no saints. But the words are there.

“Beato Michaeli Archangelo, beato Joanni Baptistae, sanctis Apostolis Petro et Paulo, omnibus Sanctis…”

“Bucky. Stop.”

Steve strides across the room and knocks a side table away in his progress, scattering books on the floor. He’s getting bigger as he’s getting closer and the lines and the circles are getting clearer and painting the mural of past violence drawing nearer and Bucky can’t stop.

“Et vobis, fratres et tibi pater, quia peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo et opere…”

Steve knows what comes next. Steve knows the words. Maybe he knows that Bucky is going to get stuck. Bucky doesn’t know. But he does get stuck. Repeating. As Steve crouches beside him and grabs his shoulders.

“Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Mea culpa. Mea culpa! Mea culpa!”

“Stop!”

Steve means stop, and now there is nothing but obedience to that voice, nothing but following to his commands. Bucky stops. Stops repeating, but doesn’t stop shaking. His shoulders are trying to throw Steve’s hands off, but they can’t, Steve could keep hold through anything.

No. He couldn’t. Bucky fell. And came back. Steve fell. His fault.

Steve is too close. Bucky can see the detail. Colorless wounds, raised and puckered skin at the edges, and his hand flexes to catch the recoil of a weapon long lost at the bottom of the river but still, forever, in his hand, in the proof etched on his best friend. On his captain. On the man he loved. Steve drew him smiling. And he drew _that_.

And in the void left by the words Bucky screams, which says the same thing.

A thousand dreams of pain tear out of his throat in a howl that careens through the small space and ricochets off the steel walls and slams into Steve, turning him to stone. Bucky throws up his arms and pushes out at Steve and does no good at all, Steve barely wavers. He kneels in the rainwater on the floor and wraps his arms tight around Bucky’s shoulders and pins his arms down. Steve doesn’t fall over when the fight gets hard. Steve just gets harder.

And Bucky can’t see the scars anymore, his own body is in the way, but he can remember. What the hell good is memory anyway? All pain. All pain.

Bucky struggles and gets nowhere. Bucky screams and the sound doesn’t drive Steve off. Steve is stronger than he is. Steve is bigger than he is. Maybe Bucky only thinks he is. Because he’s over him. Because he’s holding him. Because Bucky’s face is turned in his chest immovable in his solid arms, trapping his sorrow.

And that’s… backwards. That’s… Bucky knows the feel of Steve in the curve of his arm, knows his chin should rest on the part of Steve’s hair, knows that’s where it belongs. He howls into the wrongness of it. Where is Steve? Where did he go? Had the Winter Soldier killed him after all? No. Steve is here. No. Captain America. No. Steve. Under Captain America. The tiny man under the huge hero.

That’s not right. That’s exactly right. Steve takes up the right amount of space now. He was always bigger than his body, vibrating a foot out from the end of his skinny arms with righteous fury, and now his body fills his presence. Tiny Steve. Huge tiny Steve, enormous little person, the light and the heat and the gravity of the sun that kept Bucky in orbit.

He stops trying to escape the cage of Steve’s arms, complacent if not willing, but Steve doesn’t let him go. Steve breathes deep and slow and crushes Bucky with every inhale, releases him with every exhale. Steve’s lungs remind Bucky’s how to breathe through the screaming. Steve sets the rhythm. That’s backwards too. Steve has asthma attacks. Bucky holds him and fights his own breath steady to give Steve something to come back to. And…

And _oh God_ and strokes his hair, Steve is stroking his hair, Bucky only did that until they started to look less like boys and more like men and the neighbors started to talk. You’re a little too old to be touching your friend like that, don’t you think? Bucky didn’t think. But Bucky knew better than to get Steve in trouble because the neighbors would think they were queers if Bucky kept petting Steve’s hair like that. Even if it did make Steve breathe easier. Even if Steve did make happy little noises that made Bucky queasy with spinning desire and think maybe he was a queer and how could that be a bad thing if it was Steve.

Steve’s fingers drag through the wet strands veiling Bucky’s face and he must have stopped screaming because he can hear Steve. Not just his voice but his breath, his lungs expanding behind flesh and bone under Bucky’s ear. A strong whoosh, nothing troubling in the sound, no wheeze or tremble. That’s wrong. That’s right. That was the way Steve always should have sounded. His body hadn’t deserved him then. It does now.

Steve is speaking. How long has he been speaking? He has been holding his lips close to Bucky’s ear so he doesn’t have to shout over the sounds. What is he saying?

“It wasn’t you. I know it wasn’t you. I know.”

It was him. Steve has to know that. It was him. Steve saw. His arm raised the gun, his eyes took the aim, his finger pulled the trigger. He was satisfied with the blood that bloomed on the uniform. He had control. He knew.

“I know. It wasn’t you.”

But he didn’t remember. Remembering came later. His arm raised the gun to an enemy, his eyes took the aim on a target, his finger pulled the trigger on his mission. Steve came back later. Steve came back at the end of the line.

Are they past it? Is Steve with him any more?

He is. Has to be. Steve is still petting Bucky’s hair. And he’s still talking, and now he’s saying, “I’m here. I’m with you.”

And he’s still breathing in an even measure, still reminding. Bucky’s lungs take their orders. He breathes in when Steve breathes in, even if it shudders. He breathes out when Steve breathes out, even if air punches out of him like it’s desperate to escape such a dreadful place. He can breathe, if Steve can show him how. He can come back, if Steve is there.

“I’m here, Buck. I’m here.”

He’s here. He’s here. Scarred but alive. He’s here.

Bucky turns his head in Steve’s chest and a scar is at his cheek. Knife. Healed well. The Winter Soldier’s knives were sharp and Captain America was resilient. Just a thin white line. Bucky’s lips move without sound, finishing, even though Steve told him not to. Steve can’t hear.

_“Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper Virginem, beatum Michaelem Archangelum, beatum Joannem Baptistam, sanctos Apostolos Petrum et Paulum, omnes Sanctos…”_

One on Steve’s shoulder, in the corner of his eye. Bullet. Steve hadn’t even let go of the railing he’d been hanging from. Strong. Didn’t even slow him down.

_“…et vos, fratres et te, pater, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum nostrum.”_

Bucky leans back and Steve loosens his arms. The bullet that grazed Steve’s ribs left a tear. Didn’t heal so well. That one is textured, rough. Changes the way skin slides over muscle when Steve shifts his hold on Bucky, builds up a tiny range of hills that shouldn’t be there.

“You with me, Buck?” Steve asks.

He’s not done. Bucky pulls his legs out from under him to sit and there’s one more scar he can see. Over Steve’s hip. Almost stopped him. Almost. Kidney. Might have gotten at some of his liver too. Through and through. Nothing left in him to remember the Winter Soldier but scar tissue. That was a blessing.

“Hey? You with me?”

_“Amen.”_

Steve has the waiting look on his face but it’s more immediate now. It’s requesting data on this moment, what is happening in this moment, what happened a moment ago, what happens a moment from now. Bucky has little data. Bucky needs data. Not on this moment, but on the last one. The violent one.

Sound returns. Questions form. Bucky clears the screams from his throat to speak.

“Did you know?”

Steve’s eyes narrow. Bucky looks away from the seeking confusion. Clarify.

“Before the glass broke. Over the river. Did you know? That I couldn’t?”

Steve inhales sharply but lets it out slowly. Takes a deep breath that is steady. Thinking. He understands. He sits down on the floor next to Bucky and they’re level again. Eye to eye.

“No,” Steve says.

Not what Bucky was expecting to hear. He has to remember hearing it before it sinks in. Steve said no. He didn’t know. Steve dropped his shield, dropped his guard, dropped to the floor under the shattering assault of his fists, and he didn’t know.

“Only other option was taking you out,” Steve says. “I couldn’t have lived with myself. You didn’t have a choice. I did.”

That doesn’t matter. The Winter Soldier could have died. Hydra would have lost a tool and made another and the world would not have felt the loss any more than a rifle discarded because it had filled with water. No cost, compared to losing _him_. How could Steve have let that happen?

“You didn’t know,” Bucky says. Unbelievable.

“I couldn’t watch you fall again,” Steve says. He’s just audible, talking over a lump in his throat. Dammit if Steve starts crying Bucky is never going to stop…

“I didn’t know,” Steve says. “I hoped.”

He _hoped_? He could have _died_! 

But Bucky could have died. Not just the Winter Soldier. Bucky too. And Steve would have felt the loss of the man in the sketchbook. Smiling.

Who Steve thought he was.

“They made a lot of mistakes with me you know,” Bucky hears himself say. It hurts to talk but it hurt more not to.

Steve says, “Hm?” but if he doesn’t know what Bucky is talking about he will in a minute. Steve is committed now and Bucky doesn’t think he’ll stop him talking this time.

“They chose me,” Bucky says. “They could’ve chosen anybody but they chose me. And tried to turn me into you.”

Creases appear on Steve’s face and he sets his jaw, resisting pain. Wasn’t Steve’s fault. Still probably not something he wants to think about.

Too bad.

Bucky lifts his right hand slowly, palm out, telegraphing the neutrality of his movement as loudly as he can. Steve doesn’t recoil and Bucky turns to face him and reaches for the scar behind his head, a stab in Steve’s shoulder, deep but clean. It’s plastic smooth and goosebumps rise on Steve’s arm when Bucky’s fingers land.

“I thought, they couldn’t possibly know,” he tells Steve. “They couldn’t possibly know who you were to me. Because of all the things they could have done to me… Of all the things… Of all the things they could have put into me… It was you.”

The memories from the beginning came back the hardest. It was so long ago. Waking up in the snow under the train tracks in the cold and in pain, rough unknown men hauling him out, strange bases full of strange languages and so much more pain. Learning German and Russian later didn’t let him understand what was said to him then.

But watching the changes they put his body through, injections and bombardments of radiation, slowly transforming him into a half assed Super Soldier… He didn’t need to understand their words to understand their purpose.

“They couldn’t have known,” Bucky says. “Trying to make _me_ into _you_ … It was an honor.”

“I’m sorry Buck,” Steve murmurs.

He doesn’t get it.

“You don’t get it,” Bucky says. “Do you have any idea how happy I was, when I realized?”

Steve swallows breaths that sound wet and threaten to hitch. He shakes his head. No. Of course he had no idea.

“When you went into the ice…” Bucky says. “Everybody thought you were dead. They told me. To get me to shut up.”

Steve laughs, a little, and sniffs. He can see it. He knows Bucky. He can see Bucky lipping off to the doctors, cussing them whenever he could speak. Whenever he could breathe. Whenever he wasn’t screaming.

Bucky traces along the line on Steve’s chest. It’s so faint it doesn’t feel any different under his fingertips, feels as warm and smooth as the skin around it, and only the sight and the memory mark it out. 

Steve trembles. A quiet sobering thought surfaces, just a suggestion, showing Bucky their tableau from outside of it and pointing out the way he’s touching Steve, the intimacy and delicate attention, the resemblance to repeated and repeated dreams.

Bucky dismisses it. That’s not the point. There’s a time and place.

“And it didn’t even work,” Bucky says. “I knew they had taken me… And put some of you into me… And tried to tell me you were dead.”

Bucky chuckles at the audacity. He was the only one who got it, the only one who really knew, laughing alone at his private joke on Hydra until they got the chair right and he forgot everything. Zola said, Captain America is dead, he can’t come save you this time. But he kept working on making Bucky into Steve’s reflection. What a twit.

Bucky’s hand rounds back up and lights over Steve’s sternum, pressing into the pounding of his heart.

“You were in my fucking veins the whole time and they tried to tell me you were dead,” Bucky says.

Steve blinks hard and tears run down his cheeks. He wraps his hands around Bucky’s wrist, holding Bucky’s hand firm. But Bucky gently redirects one of Steve’s hands with his left to mirror his, placing Steve’s hand over his own heartbeat. He uses only the barest of the strength in his mechanical arm, unsure if he should even be touching Steve with that hand at all. But he’s not moving the one he has over Steve, the one that can feel. And he needs Steve’s hand on him too, so Steve can feel, feel himself pulsing through Bucky. Where he’s been for all of those years. They’d lived in each others pockets until they died and in each others hearts after.

And Steve doesn’t cringe at the touch. Somehow.

“But I could’ve killed you,” Bucky whispers. “I could’ve… after all that… And then…”

He can say without thinking about it. He can say without remembering the helicarrier. Though his body remembers, and tears slip from his eyes and drop onto Steve’s arm.

“Then you would’ve been. If I’d done it… wouldn’tve mattered what they put in me. It’d be gone. You’d be gone. Cuz I’d be gone.”

And that’s it for Steve. He cracks and bursts. He makes a tormented little sound and clutches Bucky close and weeps. Ah, man, shouldn’t’ve said that. Steve didn’t have to hear that. But Bucky had to say it. He _didn’t_ finish his mission. He _did_ pull Steve out of the river. They _weren’t_ gone. That needed saying.

And Bucky wants to say “It’s okay,” knows it’s the thing that is said in those circumstances to comfort the other, but no. No, it wasn’t okay. None of this was okay. All of it was _shit_ and they didn’t deserve a goddamn minute of it.

And he knew that as soon as Steve started crying he was going to break too and he does, not screaming again but blubbering like a child he never was because he never cried in front of Steve. It’s wrong but Steve doesn’t give him a choice. Because it had to be both of them. Together or not at all. Steve locks his arms tight around him and lets him lean into his chest and streak tears down the scars.

“I’m so sorry,” Bucky tries to say. It comes out garbled and he says it again. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” Steve says.

“I’m so sorry Steve. Please, God, Steve, forgive me,” Bucky says and he’s not sure if God or Steve will answer or what the difference would be if he did. “Forgive me.”

Steve shakes his head and chokes, speaking. “Nothing to forgive.”

That’s bullshit. Steve is trying to be kind and it isn’t working. Yes or no. Yes or no. He’s forgiven or he’s damned. Can’t say what happened was anything other than what it was.

“Forgive me,” Bucky says again.

Steve sighs. He’s quiet for a moment and Bucky is afraid he’s going to keep arguing. Keep him in limbo. He doesn’t know if he could take that. Sobbing lodges in his throat. He can’t keep sitting here if Steve can’t forgive him. He has to let him go.

Then Steve says, “I forgive you.”

And relief washes over him as solidly as the rain. He tries to say “Thank you” but it’s just a noise through his teeth. Steve says, “I know,” anyway. Sobs escape and his shoulders heave, his body has had enough of dignity and falls to pieces, all threads cut.

Steve’s arms shiver from how tightly he has been holding Bucky and for how long. He lays his hand on the side of Bucky’s head and buries his face in Bucky’s hair like he’s desperate to get as close as he can, like he’s trying to breathe Bucky in, and Bucky wishes he could. He plants his left hand on the floor and wraps his right arm tight around Steve’s back, acknowledging.

When Steve is wrung out Bucky remembers, remembers breathing right and bringing Steve back. Steve reminded him. So he does, takes the smoothest breaths he can to overlay Steve’s sobbing until he catches up. And Bucky could’ve been twelve years old for all he could tell the difference. More than a hundred pounds and nearly as many years separates Steve here from the known experience but breathing with him sounds the same, feels the same against his neck, and calms Steve just the same.

Crying sucks but it’s better than screaming. Easier to get out of. Snot is awkward, makes him stop when he has to wipe his face. Jesus. He pulls up the edge of his shirt to mop it down his cheeks. Hydra’s most notorious assassin sniveling in a soggy t-shirt. Jesus Christ.

“Ugh. God,” Bucky says. “Sorry.”

Steve smiles thin. “Don’t be. I’m here for that too.”

“Shouldn’t have to be.”

“Doesn’t change what is, Buck.”

Steve sniffles too and wipes across his face. Bucky catches his eyes and lifts the hem of his shirt from his waist, offering it to Steve with a tentative smile. It’s already soaked. And Steve chuckles. He waves the offer away and uses the back of his hand, shaking his head.

“Hell of a thing,” Steve mutters.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. Understatement of the century.

Steve looks up and around the room like he’s just realized it’s still there. The reminder of physical reality makes him look down at himself and pull his arms toward center, remembering what started the whole thing and glancing apprehensively at Bucky. He shuffles to the side and makes to stand up.

“Let me grab a shirt. You don’t have to -”

Bucky rests his right hand on Steve’s shoulder to hold him down. Not with any force, not like he would truly stop Steve from getting up if he was determined, but enough to tell Steve he doesn’t want him to. He doesn’t want to let Steve leave when he’s so close. When he’s listening.

It’s enough. “Alright,” Steve says, and he settles and replaces his arms around Bucky’s waist. “You sure you don’t want to get dry?”

“Don’t care,” Bucky says.

“Alright,” Steve says.

And lapses into silence again. Bucky’s head falls to his shoulder and they hold there, quiet for a moment. Someone will say something, eventually. But it’s alright while they don’t.

Lightening outlines the windows on the floorboards. Bucky starts counting. Not sure why, the storm is right on top of them. He doesn’t even get to two. Thunder rumbles and the cabin does not react. The windows don’t shake in their frames, the glassware doesn’t rattle in the kitchen, the floor doesn’t shudder. Bucky holds up a finger and circles it around the room.

“Nice place,” he says. “Nicer than the last place we lived. Floor’s all in one piece.”

“You remember that?” Steve says.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “It flooded when a pipe broke before we moved in. The boards were all warped. Mr. Halloran always said he’d fix it but he never did.”

Steve nods. He’s satisfied. Of course it had been a test. Of course. To see what Bucky remembers. Well, he passed.

“They didn’t put that in the history books,” Steve says.

“I remember, Steve,” Bucky says, just so Steve can hear it plain. “For better or worse, I remember.”

Steve runs one hand up and down Bucky’s back and threads the other into his hair, combing through it to the ends. Bucky sighs.

“This is better,” Steve says.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “This is better.”

Bucky butts his head softly up into Steve’s hand when he starts at the roots of his hair. Steve kneads into Bucky’s scalp and he mumbles incoherent sounds of comfort. They sound strange, like words in a language he hasn’t used for years and can barely translate, but Steve understands. He slowly closes his hand in a fist in Bucky’s hair and releases it, moves his hand and does it again, and again. Bucky’s neck loosens and his head rests easily. It’s nice having long hair. It’s nice having Steve playing with it.

“Neighbors would’ve stopped us from doing this,” Bucky says.

Steve’s shoulders twitch, a laugh he doesn’t have breath for. And he kisses Bucky’s cheek. Bucky never had the guts to. Steve’s breath feathers in his ear and his lips part from Bucky’s skin with a soft sound.

And it isn’t enough. Not nearly enough. His heart pounds and it aches and maybe… Did Steve kiss him just out of comfort, or is there maybe, here, a time and a place?

Bucky turns his head and brushes his nose along Steve’s and stops so close he can feel the shape of Steve’s lips in the air. Steve could dare to hope and Bucky could too, but not to try. If he’s wrong… If he hurts Steve more than he already has… It’s unconscionable.

So he doesn’t take Steve’s lips out of the air but he reaches up and trails his fingers across his cheek, meets his eyes and forms such a clear picture of yearning in his mind that he knows it must be in plain view. He had craved that beautiful young artist that had been changed into a work of art and maybe, if he’s still here… If they’re both still here…

Realization dawns on Steve’s face. The waiting look vanishes. Steve’s eyes go wide. But crying makes it so difficult to tell, what he’s seeing. Are Steve’s eyes shining from the tears, or something else? They’ve mourned and they’ve comforted and maybe… Maybe something happens next. _Maybe_ there’s something left.

“You don’t owe me penance,” Steve says.

Wait. What?

“I’m not offering penance,” Bucky says. “I’m being a selfish little shit cuz I just want you to kiss me.”

He kinda likes the sound of his voice. He hadn’t intended the rough desire to creep in to it but it had. And Steve notices. Bucky watches his pupils blow out and his mouth drop open to reveal breaths that have fallen to shallow panting, and Bucky’s reputation as a heartbreaker is seventy years old but he knows wanting when he sees it.

Can he trust it? Of course he can. It’s Steve. If he can see it, it’s real.

“You what?” Steve says, giving lip service to confusion like he doesn’t know, like he can’t see and never saw before.

Alright maybe he didn’t. Bucky tried to be good about it. They’d never been alone before, never really alone. Kids in little apartments full of families, then together in one but the walls were thin and the families had keys. Then soldiers. Never really alone.

Then SHIELD went and dropped them in the wilderness. With miles of storm between them and the rest of the world. And rain pounding on the roof like it’s egging them on.

Bucky’s hand slides down from Steve’s face to curl around the back of his neck and feel his pulse thrumming against his wrist.

“Anything you want me to do to make amends I’ll do it,” Bucky says. “You think I deserve punishment I’ll take it. But I don’t deserve…”

He strokes his thumb across Steve’s jaw and Steve’s eyes cross. Steve is working hard at this illusion but he’s losing it.

“I don’t deserve you,” Bucky says. “Never did. Never could. Wouldn’t be penance. It’d be a gift.”

Steve doesn’t take long thinking about it. He looks at Bucky for the time it takes to see he isn’t lying or even exaggerating and then closes his eyes and tilts his chin. Bucky’s eyes close on instinct, guessing, hoping, _hoping_ that he knows what’s coming next.

And he’s right. 

Steve’s lips land and fit and Bucky is hollowed out and refilled with the warmth of them. It’s a grazing kiss, light and tentative, could go either way, but it’s the end of a life and a life restarted anyway. It can part and end as gentle comfort or move and change and become something with weight behind it and either way they’re kissing now. Finally. And it’s something to live for.

And the dreams were wrong. There’s a fullness to Steve’s lips that hadn’t been represented. Bucky has to remember the truth, that without even meaning to Steve’s bottom lip lays between his and that his lips form around it, that this is something he knows, that he lived it and didn’t dream it. It _can’t_ be forgotten.

When neither the dream ends nor the man pulls away Bucky gets his bearings. He swipes his tongue across the seam of his lips, smoothing them from the dryness of weeping and dragging slowly along Steve’s. He tightens his hand at the nape of Steve’s neck to hold him still, hold him here. Steve sighs and one arm snakes up Bucky’s back, pulling his shoulders forward and pressing them together at the chest. Steve takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss and delve into his mouth and ah, good, that’s the way this kiss is going to go. Good. Steve has given up on penance, then.

When their tongues tangle to give them a taste of each other Steve groans low in the back of his throat and Bucky feels it through his mouth like he’d made the sound himself. He may have. Steve tastes the way he looks, warm and clean and intoxicating. They turn sloppy and desperate when they’re trying to breathe through passages blocked by crying and they can either breathe or lave along each other’s tongues and they’d rather give up breathing. Their legs tangle between them as they both try to climb over and bring the other closer, and in the end Bucky’s legs are crooked over Steve’s and Steve’s are wrapped around his hips and his pajama pants are soaked through from all the rain Bucky brought in with him but who gives a damn.

Steve breaks from the kiss first to pull back and flash his eyes across Bucky’s. Checking in, all concern. Big sap.

“You sure?” Steve asks.

“I’m sure,” Bucky says.

“You alright?” Steve asks.

“I’m alright,” Bucky says. _Annoyed that you stopped,_ he doesn’t say. “More than alright. Hell, Steve, I’ve dreamed about this.”

“When?” Steve asks.

Always.

“I’m not sure,” Bucky says instead. More true. “For a long time, I think.”

Steve smiles.

“Me too,” Steve says. “I’m sort of expecting to wake up.”

Steve brushes a lock of hair back from Bucky’s face, and God he’s stunning with that soft look in his eyes. There’s a little bit of the waiting too but it’s really more hoping now, seeing something good and wanting it to be real. Bucky knows all about that.

“Well if you wake up before I do, get me up so I can kiss you again,” Bucky says.

Steve laughs. Bucky smiles at himself. Smooth, Barnes.

“Back atcha, pal,” Steve says. And Steve kisses him, quickly and easily, just because he can. Bucky is delighted. Can’t make Steve do shit he doesn’t want to do but hey, if he wants to…

“You know I don’t have a lot of data to make this claim but I think you’re a pretty good kisser,” Steve says, smirking a gentle challenge. It’s quiet, but the confidence is there. Hesitating, but daring to try, teasing his friend.

“Well I do have a lot of data and I am a very good kisser,” Bucky says, rising to the challenge and proving it. He takes little kisses from Steve, exploring the play of lips and the dart of tongues, and neither of them can stop smiling and it doesn’t stop them from kissing too.

“And you’re not half bad yourself,” Bucky says. That’s a lie. But Steve knows it’s a lie. Bucky is flushed and reeling and Steve isn’t blind. He feigns offense and digs a knuckle into Bucky’s ribs.

“Gee thanks,” Steve says, and when Bucky grins and wriggles away from the knuckle in his side Steve reels him back in to press their lips together again. Getting his own back, showing Bucky who’s “not half bad” and doing an impressive job of it. Even if he does use too much tongue. Eh, Steve is bright. He can be taught.

Thrust, parry, and riposte. God he’d missed that rhythm. They traded barbs that didn’t sting, linked in that playful tussle that barely aged with them, fights that were really games of escalating affection. And now trading kisses between the jibes like they’ve discovered new a punctuation mark to end an exchange. It makes so much sense it was a wonder they hadn’t always used them.

“So we can talk now, right?” Bucky says.

He’d meant it to be funny. Obviously, they could talk now. He’d said the worst of it and rather than driving them mad it drove them together. Obviously, they could talk now. But Steve sags and shakes his head and Bucky’s heart sinks.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says.

Bucky holds up his right hand, placating, and waves the sentiment away. “No, I get it. SHIELD dropped me out of the sky into your lap. Couldn’t have been easy.”

Steve catches Bucky’s hand and interlaces their fingers and squeezes softly.

“Still, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve shut you out. I know you wanted to talk. And we could’ve actually had a conversation when we got here instead of – ”

“Instead of making out on the floor?” Bucky interrupts. “Y’know, I think I’ll take this, thanks.”

Bucky squeezes Steve’s hand back. And he thinks it’s okay to say it’s okay now. So he does. “It’s okay,” he says. “Better late than never,” he says, and means it. 

Steve smiles softly, giving up the argument. He brings Bucky’s hand to his lips and kisses the back of his fingers.

“All’s well that ends well?” Steve says, seeing his cliché and raising him one.

Bucky scoffs. “Well you know that’s bullshit. But… this is better.”

“Yeah. This is better.”

Bucky pulls Steve’s hand over to press his lips on Steve’s knuckles too, and for a moment just look at their hands wrapped together. Steve’s hadn’t changed much. His hands were the same, and his eyes, and his hair. Which accounts for almost all that Bucky can see, as close as they are. And that’s just fine. For all the ugly things they had done, their entwined hands look beautiful together.

Steve disentangles his fingers to lay his hand on the side of Bucky’s face. He brings the other up to cradle his jaw, and Steve is looking at his face the way he had been looking at their hands. Same? Did he look the same? No. Not really. His own mother probably wouldn’t recognize him now. But Steve had. Steve still saw him. Saw right through him, bless his heart.

He doesn’t have to move, doesn’t even have to fully form the thought, because as soon as it occurs to him how desperately he wants Steve to kiss him again he does. Long and slow, warming him to the melting point and holding him together.

Bucky lets his right hand take the paths of Steve’s body that it took before, passing over scars without lingering, apologies made to his skin and permission granted to touch Steve for the joy of touching him. And it’s such joy, he’s magnificent, and Bucky paints pictures of desire in beaded sweat. Steve lists into his touch and the beautiful little sounds he makes are going to keep Bucky warm for a long time. Could probably keep him warm through the winter again.

He fists his left hand still at his side, struggling between the impulse to reach out with both hands and the sure and certain knowledge that the mechanical touch would not be welcome. There’s a line. He wouldn’t be able to feel much anyway, it’s hardly a loss. It’s just so _hard_ not to wrap both arms tight around Steve to hold him…

Steve hears the mechanical struggle, or notices Bucky’s conflict, and glances down at Bucky’s arm. He shouldn’t have to ask, Bucky should just tell him, they can talk now.

“I don’t want to scare you,” Bucky says.

Steve’s lips curl up into a smile.

“You’re not scary like this,” Steve says.

“You sure about that?”

Steve’s hands drift down Bucky’s neck and across his shoulders, and even through his shirt Steve’s touch tingles like his fingers are electrified. Steve’s hand disappears from sense into data traveling down his left arm and wrapping around the bicep, thumbing one of the joins between the plates with interest rather than discomfort. Bucky suppresses the urge to yank it away. Probably could. But it doesn’t seem fair. He forced himself to see and touch Steve’s scars and wanted Steve to let him… He leaves the arm motionless and watches Steve’s index finger outline the red star. Same difference.

Steve’s fingers move to the transition on his left shoulder and he stops, looking at his own hand with some disappointment. He reaches for the hem of Bucky’s shirt and Bucky doesn’t stop him from taking it off and dropping it on the floor. Steve replaces his hand over the bared skin and metal, and only half of his hand is tangible, the other half only a suggestion of pressure and warmth through the machinery. But he presses down firmly and squeezes his fingers together, holding pieces intact. Whole.

Did he know he was doing that? Or did he just want to know what it felt like, that join at his shoulder? It works either way. Bucky kisses him to tell him it worked.

“Your arm doesn’t scare me,” Steve says.

And okay, so maybe that’s true. But that is an incomplete statement if there ever was one.

“What does?” Bucky asks.

Steve doesn’t seem to have heard him. Despite the stability of his touch Steve takes Bucky apart with his eyes, finds and claims every part of his own much modified form. He’s a latticework of scars himself but they have nothing to do with Steve. Gifts from missions. Captain America broke his arm but that isn’t apparent. And he’d healed. But he’d been made in the super soldier’s image and he supposes from a certain point of view it wasn’t a bad one. A cracked mirror reflection of the glory in front of him.

Steve’s grip on his arm cinches down and grinds two of the plates together, and it doesn’t hurt, it can’t hurt, but he can tell that the same grip on his other arm would. Steve bites his bottom lip and furrows his brow like he’s fighting with something invisible and channeling that fight into his grip to constrain it. Whatever the hell he’s trying not to do Bucky is pretty sure he wishes he would. But Steve moves carefully with his other hand, traces the line of Bucky’s collarbone and down leaving a thrill in its wake and Bucky shivers. The lights seem to dim, the storm outside to subside into silence, the only sensation that matters being Steve exploring him with his hands after his eyes and Bucky desperately wanting to be discovered.

“God, Buck,” Steve mumbles, “You are just…”

When Steve meets his eyes again his gaze is an inferno. The end of that sentence was something Bucky certainly didn’t deserve, he figures that from the hunger that stopped Steve from finishing it. And it’s Steve’s turn to drop his voice to a low grumble that makes the hair on the back of Bucky’s neck stand on end.

“Was kissing me the only thing you dreamed about?” Steve says.

No. Oh hell no it was not.

“No,” Bucky says. Because he can. And it’s about damned time.

“Me either,” Steve says.

Well alright then.

Steve kisses him hard, a crash of lips and teeth that would have knocked him over if he wasn’t already down. His hands fly up to the back of Bucky’s head and card tight in his hair, trapping him in the kiss, force that old directives prod at him to fight but new exhilaration allows. His movements speed with Steve’s, his hands understand the shift in tone and _fuck it_ even the mechanical fingers of his left hand get involved, grasping at Steve’s back. The touch doesn’t make Steve flinch, makes him moan instead and plunge his tongue into Bucky’s mouth. 

Bucky grabs the tail end of a rational thought – _Kiss him back you dolt, you’re good at this_ – and tries his damnedest. But Steve has all the leverage. Steve’s hands in his hair steer him the way he wants the kiss to go, hold him close so Steve can meld their mouths or back in a loose grip with Steve’s lips just slipping across his. Steve gulps breaths whenever they separate for an instant but it’s never longer than an instant, Steve kisses him like he can’t stop, not like he doesn’t want to but like he can’t, and that’s most of the answer to Bucky’s question. What Steve is still afraid of.

Steve drops his head to Bucky’s shoulder and opens his mouth on the skin. Bucky is a little surprised when Steve bites him even after seeing the fire in his eyes. He’d figured Steve would be the soft and cuddly type but he was wrong. He’s learning different.

Steve is out of control. At least a little bit out of his own control because he wants something so bad. Steve’s convictions were so firm you could bend horseshoes around them and here he is wanting something he probably, honestly, shouldn’t have. Poor thing. That would be terrifying.

Too fucking bad. Bucky wants too. Steve’s a big boy. He’ll deal.

Steve’s bite is all heat and pressure, no pain, but relentless. He doesn’t spend long in one place, closing his teeth until he’s satisfied and moving on, again and again homing in on the sensitive dips and joins in Bucky’s neck that he had plumb forgotten about. It’s paralyzing, each bite pulling the strength from his limbs and leaving him languid and floating in the sensation. He’s gasping and whining and hoping Steve knows they’re good sounds, that he’s not crying anymore, that Steve doesn’t have to stop.

Words help, right? Communication? He puts sounds together into words before they sputter out under Steve’s mouth, says Steve’s name and says “Yes,” and “Oh, God” quite a few times. And the more he talks the more Steve moves, the tighter his hands grip, the faster he pants into Bucky’s skin. Bucky’s voice is riling him up and he’s not sure how high Steve can get but he’s about to find out.

“More,” Bucky whimpers, and Steve gives him more. 

Steve slides his hands down Bucky’s sides and flattens them over his hips. He grips and inclines Bucky forward, not a lot of subtlety in the suggestion, or in the pressure against his groin that makes him cry out and Steve silence him with a deep kiss. Steve rocks him back and forth like that, swallowing his moans and digging the weave of his jeans into his flesh, and Bucky bobs on the current of lust. Waves of heat crash over him whenever Steve cants him into that glorious compression and his zipper is causing him problems, buckling and rubbing uncomfortably against his erection, but it’s a secondary concern at best. Primary concern is getting it out of the way of what Steve is suggesting. And getting Steve’s pants out of the way too.

Bucky’s hands take more permission than they were given before he can stop them but Steve just moans when Bucky shoves his hand down the back of Steve’s pajamas and squeezes. And Jesus Steve’s ass could cause an international incident all by itself but Steve doesn’t give him much time to get acquainted. He pushes Bucky back and levers himself off the floor to strip the pajama pants off. Bucky remembers another scar before he sees it, one through Steve’s thigh, but that fails to bring the pain back. Can’t, when Steve is naked in front of him and his mind is full of humming pink fog.

Steve is gleaming now with sweat and the patched flush of arousal. He’s hard enough to drive nails and that gives Bucky pause. Steve is hard for _him_. After everything. The man with the scars wants the man who put them there. But no… No. Captain America is in storage somewhere, armor on a shelf, shield lying on top of it, and with the return of memory the Winter Soldier is no more. And _Steve_ wanting _Bucky_ … Maybe that’s not so farfetched.

Bucky reaches for him but Steve grabs his arm. He pulls and spins Bucky to face away from him and bears him down, laying out over him. So fast. He’s so fast, so incredibly strong, he tosses Bucky around like a toy. There’s no doubt in his mind how a fight between them would have truly gone, if he hadn’t been so well armed, if Steve hadn’t decided not to take him down. He’d be paste. Hydra was full of shit. But they’re not fighting here and Bucky goes along, no reason to resist, nothing Steve could want right now would be a bad thing.

Even if he had wanted to get his hands on him…

And even if the floor is digging into his shoulder and the point of his hip and yeah, that kinda sucks. Not enough to ask Steve to stop. Not nearly enough.

“More?” Steve grumbles in his ear.

“More,” Bucky says. There could never be enough of him.

Steve works a hand under him and yanks at his belt, manages it one handed and defeats his fly as well before it even occurs to Bucky to help. Steve pulls his pants and shorts down together and he can’t get them all the way off with his own knees in the way but he doesn’t care. He leaves Bucky’s clothes rucked down and pulls him up and back into boundless contact with himself. Steve is scorching hot, his skin is burning into Bucky’s back and it’s _wonderful_. Steve rakes his hair up off the back of his neck and plants a kissing bruise at the top of his spine, and Bucky whimpers and Steve growls. Holy fucking shit he is _gone_ and that’s _fantastic_.

Steve got good at this somehow, how did Steve get good at this, don’t think, don’t think, just enjoy it. His hands are rough across Bucky’s hips and his thighs and he’s circling his own hips down and rutting against him hard and man alive that’s fucking sexy. Steve was the type who could hump a pillow and come and Bucky always kinda envied that. Gave you options. You could come through your pants if you could do that. Or up against the ass of the person splayed out under you. Which Steve seems inclined to do.

And there’s more Bucky can do than he thought, arching his back and keeping friction and pressure where Steve needs it, listening and shifting when Steve’s groans are indicative. The line of Steve’s erection is blazing clear in his mind and he’d use any part of his body he could to get at it. He needs his hands for counterbalance and that’s a shame, he would rather be grabbing at Steve’s hips and driving him on.

God it’s hot. Sweat collects and drips off. Steve’s cock is slipping in the crease of his ass and is that slick enough? Gods, no, what are you thinking, Barnes, that’d hurt like a bitch, what’s wrong with you. It’s so tempting, that’s what, feeling that soft skin dragging against him. But no, just let him keep doing what he’s doing, this is wonderful enough. This is still beautiful.

Bucky thinks Steve must be ignoring his cock on purpose though he keens for it, aches for that touch and bucks toward him whenever his hand moves. Maybe he’s still not sure. Maybe he’s taking his time. Maybe he’s being a goddamn tease. Either or. He’s not going anywhere. Bucky’s not holding Steve down.

No, Steve is holding him down, very effectively. He’s not doing much to keep his weight off Bucky’s back for all Bucky could care. His lower back is going to be reminding him of this for a while, probably better tomorrow but sore until he goes to sleep at least. Something to remember him by.

With easy access to his back Steve starts up biting him again. It dizzies him, not tickling and not hurting but a little of both, teeth meandering and tongue and breath spreading sensation that blurs and the earth spins. Bucky reaches down to touch himself and it feels like stealing. But it’s so much, too much, every inch of contact is heaven and it’s all contact with Steve leaning heavy over him and so very obviously climbing higher.

Steve is panting and whining like he’s close and yeah, so, it’s not the first time Bucky’s heard that, small spaces and little boundaries, but it’s the first time he’s _felt_ it and it’s fucking _incredible_. Steve’s pinned himself between his own hips and Bucky’s and he’s actually gonna come on them both. Oh fuck yes he actually is…

He sinks his teeth into Bucky’s shoulder when he gets to the edge and that one kinda hurt but that’s okay, that’s just evidence Steve is out of his fucking mind and that’s just fine. Bucky shouts, can’t help it, the pain is mild but God Steve’s gone still and his breath has gone harsh and he’s shuddering behind Bucky and Bucky can feel every pulse of it and it just makes him harder in his own hand. He should’ve known. He should’ve known Steve would be fierce. In this as in everything. But it’s a joy to find out.

Steve takes a panting moment to get himself together but he doesn’t get up. He releases his teeth and rolls his hips through the aftershocks and Bucky almost loses it the instant he feels Steve trail wet along his back. But then Steve moves Bucky’s hand aside and replaces it with his own. Steve is taking back what’s his. And it doesn’t take much, Steve is taking over where he left off, and Steve must have been watching, he does what Bucky was doing to himself, even manages to get the flick of his thumb right over the head and dear God it’s just another hand but Jesus Mary and Joseph it’s Steve’s hand and fuck he’s strong and fuck he’s good at this and fuck fuck fuck…

Bucky realizes his thoughts had become words without asking him first, always too few or too many they were. He’s shouting “God yes Steve,” and he’s shouting “That’s so good,” and he’s shouting “Fuck!” until he’s shouting nonsense because it’s inevitable now, he couldn’t stop it if he tried, he’s gonna come and this must be a dream. It’s like so many that he’s had before but he’s not waking up. He’s not waking up. He’s really gonna come in Steve’s hand instead of his own. And Steve is all over him and Steve is all around him and his body is streaming lightening outward from Steve’s hand.

And Bucky sees stars. All of them white.

And then he’s falling, but he doesn’t have far to fall because Steve’s arm is under him and the floor is inches under that. But he’s draped over Steve’s arm until Steve pulls it back and then he’s flat on the floor and under Steve, gasping and trembling. Steve is kissing the back of his neck, and he’s humming satisfied noises that vibrate down Bucky’s spine. He’s happy. Happy about what he’s done. That’s hilarious.

The stars fade. Steve doesn’t shift back far. He puts his knees down on either side of Bucky’s hips and his elbows down on either side of his ribs and sets his head on Bucky’s shoulder blade. And breathes.

“Jesus,” Bucky mutters.

Steve doesn’t respond. Bucky turns his head and he can barely see Steve’s face, can just reach to press his lips to Steve’s arm.

“You alright there?” Bucky asks.

“You kidding?” Steve says, indistinct in his shoulder.

“No?”

Steve picks up his head and slips his arms under Bucky to hold him.

“I’m good, Buck. I’m… yeah, wow, I’m good.”

“Wow. Yeah,” Bucky says. “Fucking finally, Rogers.”

Steve barks a laugh. “When would’ve been a better time for you, Barnes? You know what, don’t answer that.”

Bucky smiles. That’s fair. No good answer to that anyway. This is the time and place. Certainly not what the Retreat was built for, but if can hold Banner it can hold them. And they can hold each other. No surveillance. And a good thing, too. Would’ve given those agents one hell of a show.

The floor is not the most comfortable place to be cuddling after and they’re both fairly sticky but there is no force on earth that could budge Bucky from it. If he crosses his arms he can reach to run his fingers down Steve’s neck, and Steve kisses the back of his head, and both of them get their breath back a bit at a time. His heart rate decelerates at a gentle coast and he wonders, though it feels safe to hope, if it’s going to ramp back up again before SHIELD pulls them out. Maybe.

Eventually Steve unwinds his arms and sits up. He picks up Bucky’s shirt and swipes it down Bucky’s back and his own stomach. Bucky turns over his shoulder to arch an eyebrow at him. Steve shrugs.

“Hell, I made the mess, figure I oughta clean it up.”

Bucky laughs. Ain’t that the truth. 

“With my shirt?” Bucky says.

“Closest thing to hand,” Steve says. He unstraddles Bucky’s hips and sits down beside him, and Bucky takes the shirt from him to wipe at his own stomach and at the floor.

“Kinda wasted that shower, didn’t you?” Bucky says.

“Hey, my hair is still clean,” Steve says.

“Don’t suppose they left me shampoo too?”

“You can use mine.”

“Aren’t you generous.”

Bucky wrestles with his clothes tangled in his knees to right himself and sit up facing Steve. They’re not touching for the first time in probably an hour but it feels like a lifetime and it’s more important than getting situated, more important than getting off the floor. He reaches out and runs his fingers through Steve’s hair, and notices after he’d done it that he’d used his left hand without thinking about it and Steve hadn’t even blinked. Steve puts his hand down on Bucky’s leg and that’s better. There’s still something left.

“Plenty of hot water,” Steve says. “Have at it.”

“Why would I waste the water when you’re just going to make a mess of me again?”

It was a gamble, a suggestion guised as a certainty, but Steve’s reaction is confirmation. His eyebrows jump in mock surprise and he tilts his head.

“Am I? What makes you think that?”

Bucky points at his defiled shirt on the floor.

“I’m sorry, did I completely misread what just happened?”

Steve smiles. It’s a little crooked, there’s a little wrinkle on his forehead. His expression is as clear as words saying, “We’re good, right?” And Bucky feels the same expression on his own face and the same question in his own head. Figures that means they’re good.

“No, I suppose not,” Steve says.

“You can mop the floor,” Bucky says, pushing his luck.

Steve’s smile evens out. “In the morning,” he says.

“Yeah, it’s probably gone midnight, isn’t it.”

“Don’t tell me you’re still a morning person,” Steve groans.

“Don’t tell me you still aren’t.”

Steve shakes his head. He picks up his pajama pants and stands up, and holds his other hand down to help Bucky off the floor. It takes some doing, his belt wants to escape its loops and trip him up, and that’s just the icing on the cake. It can’t be a dream if it’s this awkward. He climbs to his feet holding his jeans up and Steve’s lips are pressed together suppressing laughter and it’s perfect. Just perfectly real.

“Come to bed with me,” Steve says. “Just to sleep, if you want. Whatever you want.”

Steve wraps an arm around Bucky’s waist and brings them back together. Bucky isn’t sure what he wants but being pressed close to Steve factors pretty highly. Not sure he’s up for round two but the soft slide of skin against skin is delightful.

“I just don’t want to let go of you yet,” Steve says.

Bucky couldn’t have said it better himself.

“Me either,” he says.

Steve kisses him softly, and that’s much better. Definitely something left.

He follows Steve into the first bedroom and it looks like a little hotel room, no character, but of course it does, and it doesn’t mean a damn thing because it’s got Steve and it’s got a bed and he can’t see an alarm clock. Steve gets into clean shorts and hands Bucky a pair of same and they basically fit. Good enough for now. 

He pulls back the covers and sits down on the bed and Bucky joins him. They lie down together and there’s just enough space for both of them and a gentle silence. And if what happened on the floor was popping the cork out of the bottle then what happens in the bed is settling in to drink the wine, sipping each other slowly and savoring until sleepiness takes over. When they drift off Bucky finds his left arm draped lightly up Steve’s ribs, and the metal has warmed with his body, and it feels… alive.

He sleeps, but not alone, and dreams.


	2. The Next Time We're In The City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the second day at the Retreat, Coulson’s team arrives. Bucky’s hopes are complicated, and then rediscovered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again I erred on the side of caution with the tags. I wouldn’t call the descriptions “graphic” but someone else might. I did bring out the Winter Soldier and it’s not very nice.
> 
> I’m not sorry about getting them all wet again. Not sorry at all.

He wakes in the dark and jumps across the bed when he feels breath on the back of his neck.

Programming comes awake before memory and he sits bolt upright, powering servos in his arm and searching for his holsters, seeing a strange little room and unfamiliar windows and wait, why isn’t he in a tent? He doesn’t recognize the room. Someone is touching him and it’s the middle of the night and he’s nearly naked and _there’s someone here_ and where the _hell_ is Steve? Steve is supposed to be here. He doesn’t know where he is but he knows that.

The body in the bed next to him shifts and he whirls toward it with his left fist raised before moonlight catches golden hair and cornflower blue eyes open and blink slowly and memory surfaces and knocks the wind out of him.

“Buck. Y’okay?” Steve says blearily.

Bucky sucks in breath and reels back. That’s Steve. Steve took him to bed last night. In the Retreat. And that almost cost him dearly.

Blood whines in his ears. The mechanisms in his arm are still activated and he forces them to release. The sound subsides. Steve hasn’t noticed yet. He’s rubbing at his eyes and asking again, “You okay?”

And there’s no good answer to that. “Yes” would be an outright lie. He’s instantly exhausted, the aversion of crisis sapping him as much as a confrontation would have. But “No” would make Steve sit up and ask him what’s wrong. And he can’t answer that either. Doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to tell him. It’s just an occasional experience of sudden consciousness. There were no nightmares, no strange sounds in the night, no cause that he could blame. Nothing to tell Steve to make him understand. And nothing to take away the resulting fear.

“I will be,” Bucky says, hoping that will be enough of both yes and no to satisfy.

“’Nything I can do?”

He could use a stiff double.

“No,” Bucky says. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“S’okay. C’mere.”

Steve wraps his hand loosely around Bucky’s arm and lets gravity suggest he lie back down. If Bucky stays still, Steve’s hand will slip off, and Bucky suspects he would let it. But the ease of escape makes it that much easier for Bucky to go along. There’s no danger in Steve’s grip. Bucky wonders if he knows that or if he’s just being gentle with him, afraid Bucky will startle and flee. Or if he’s just too sleepy to apply force. Either way.

Bucky does lie down, facing Steve, and Steve traces his hand up his arm and closes his eyes.

“Go back to sleep,” Steve says.

“Aye, captain,” Bucky says, and Steve smiles.

Bucky shuffles into the most comfortable position he can find on the pillow. It’s awful. All pillows are awful. Were pillows always awful? No. They weren’t awful when his shoulders matched.

“See you in the morning,” Steve murmurs, well into sleep.

“Yeah.”

His mind attempts to replay the image of Steve’s face under the shadow of his fist. He keeps his eyes open to watch Steve sleeping peacefully until it stops.

*

When the sun slants through the window across his face it wakes him gently. Light and warmth give memory a chance to reconnect before he opens his eyes. He is not surprised to see the back of a ruffled blond head and he is pleased to feel the taut curve of a spine against his stomach. His hand rests on Steve’s hip, where it found its way in the night, and he moves his lips in a brief thanks to the sun. This is a _much_ better way to wake up.

The cabin is silent. Almost silent. Deep and regular and _loud_ breathing issues from the other pillow. Guess the serum stopped short of fixing a snore. Bucky shakes his head. Must be nearly nine and Steve is miles from waking up. How that layabout got to be Captain America is beyond him.

They slept over the covers, it’s too warm to need them, and he gets out of bed without even interrupting the snore. He pads into the bathroom and avails himself of the facilities and takes a little bit of inventory. Plenty of towels, Steve brought soap and shampoo and there’s a comb on the counter, assorted over-the-counter meds in the cabinet but nothing that will do either of them any good, first aid kit, a couple of hair elastics and safety pins hiding with the dust bunnies in the corners because of course there are. They would turn up of their own accord in a dwelling that had never seen a human presence. He fishes out one of the elastics and borrows the comb and looks a bit more presentable in the mirror.

There are safety razors and shaving cream. Shave? Yeah, could do that. It’s been a while but it’s a skill he still has. And there ought to be a familiar face under there. Would probably make a better impression on SHIELD, too. Show them the face from the history books. Show Steve the face from the sketchbook. He runs the faucet hot and takes his time.

There’s a light mark on his shoulder, just a little round redness that isn’t indicative of anything in particular, but he remembers. God almighty Steve fucking bit him. Nobody would believe that. Some people might believe they’d had sex, Dugan and his suggestive eyebrows certainly would may that perceptive bastard rest in peace, but not nobody would believe Steve knocked him around the way he did. Steve worked hard on the gentle giant image. It’d scare the people under his command to know come the pinch that their captain could snap and pin someone down and bury his teeth in their neck... 

Doesn’t scare Bucky. He’s tenting Steve’s shorts, remembering. Stop it, Barnes, you’ve got a blade in your hand. Focus.

He gets through shaving with minimal fuss and approves of the results. He looks a hell of a lot younger. Which is weird. But… appropriate. He’ll take it. The face in the mirror with his hair pulled back and smooth skin beneath might not have gone down into the snow at all.

He finds the black SHIELD duffle on the bed in the other room and fetches clothes out of it. The eagle on his chest looks strange and feels stranger but tell you what, if you need to get around easily, nothing beats a t-shirt and sweats. The nasal carpentry in the next room hasn’t faltered and he figures if anything would make it stop it would be the smell of coffee. He drifts into the main room and aims for the kitchen.

His shirt is still on the floor from the night before. With the overturned table and a haphazard selection of literature. One leg is cracked off of the table, it hangs by a screw. And there’s still a visible spot on the waxed floorboards where he’d been lying under Steve. Who said he’d mop this morning.

His fingers drift to the mark on his shoulder. His skin calls up the edges of Steve’s teeth, the heat of his breath, the pitch of his moans. He’d seen the mark and the room still shows the damage, it must have really happened. He has memories but he can’t always trust that, he may have dreamed it, but the mess is at his feet. And he knows how it got there. 

He’s going to have something to talk about with Steve when he gets up.

And outside there is actually a real honest to God bluebird sitting on the railing of the porch and chirping. That is ridiculous.

He rights the table, three legs will hold it well enough, and he stacks the books on top of it. Picks up the shirt and throws it over the back of the couch. Wash that later. While Steve is mopping.

He engages the coffee maker and figures it out on the second try. They’ve gotten complicated in recent decades. It percolates and he investigates. What other provisions did SHIELD leave behind? Rice, pasta, more peanut butter than he’d ever seen. Canned food. Breadbox on the counter. No idea how long this has been here. But the same recent decades made food preservation a cinch. Nothing to worry about.

Way hey, there’s half a bottle of Scotch skulking behind the boxes of cereal. Looks expensive. SHIELD probably didn’t know it was here. Leavings of some previous resident, like the elastics. Not for breakfast though. 

He finds boxes of organic fruit bars in bright pink wrappers and almost laughs aloud. They’re so cute he has to try one. But it’s basically just sugar and not even good for being that. Chewy, bitter sugar. One bite is enough. Into the trash with the rest of it.

Fast protein? Did they leave eggs? Refrigerator. They did, good deal. Eggs cook faster than meat. Steve left the pan out, clean, on the counter, from last night. Onto the burner with it. Butter? Fantastic.

A bowl for scrambling. He cracks five eggs without counting, making enough for Steve too, because that’s how he’d always done it. Why five and not six? Eggs come in dozens, Buck. Cuz you’ll only eat two and I won’t eat four, Steve.

Wait. Captain America. Bucky cracks the sixth. They can both eat three eggs at this point.

Salt and pepper and that’s enough. If that’s not enough you’re not doing it right.

“Morning,” Steve says.

Bucky triangulates the voice. Steve is right behind him. Well at least he can still move quietly. He’s some kind of useful as an ally. He was up and dressed and into the kitchen and Bucky didn’t hear a thing.

Man should’ve known better than to sneak up on him, though. Even if he doesn’t know the danger he’d been in last night. You just don’t pull that shit on an old soldier.

Don’t jump, don’t flinch, don’t give him the satisfaction.

“Morning,” Bucky says, and pours the eggs into the sizzling pan.

“I can do that,” Steve says.

“You always overcook eggs,” Bucky says, and turns around for a spatula.

Steve gets a good look at Bucky’s face and steps back like he’s been slapped. Bucky kinda feels bad about that. Slapping Steve with the retreat of years he wasn’t expecting. Bucky finds a spatula and turns back to the pan. Steve wages a little war with hesitant hands and feet over whether or not to say anything and decides not to. He licks his lips and picks a mug up off of the counter, but his eyes keep dragging back to Bucky’s chin.

“I’ve gotten better at it,” Steve says.

Bucky scoffs. He’ll believe that when he sees it. Not worth the risk this morning. Steve cooks eggs done in the pan and they’re hard on the plate. Never learned how to leave things be.

Steve stands next to him and pours coffee and sneaks glimpses up at Bucky like he can’t just take them now, like everything isn’t fucking different now, like the sun rising on them made them shy kids again instead of whatever the _fuck_ they were last night.

“You get back to sleep alright?” Steve says.

Goddammit what a sweetheart.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Thanks.”

Bucky tries to keep his attention on the pan but Steve is splitting it right down the middle. He must be _capable_ of buying shirts that aren’t so tight, right? Maybe he’s just showing off. He’s got a lot to show. 

And Steve is asking himself “Should I?” in all the lines of his face and making Bucky regret shaving and in the split second it takes him to decide to say so, it’s no big deal, it’ll grow back, but before he can look up to do it Steve leans over and presses his lips to the hinge of Bucky’s jaw and Bucky can’t for the life of him remember what he was going to say.

“Always wanted to do that,” Steve says.

Which destroys the possibility of Bucky saying anything at all. He can barely stand. He’s going to be shaving in the mornings again.

“You look good in blue,” Steve says.

And now he doesn’t even mind the eagle. He knows he looks good in blue, brings out his eyes, but Steve never mentioned it before.

“Thanks,” Bucky says. “You look good in anything.”

Steve smirks. And kisses his lips. Warmth rolls off of Steve in waves and whatever he put in his hair smells like apples and everything is different now. Everything is different now. 

And he is almost, but not quite, too distracted to turn the fire off under the eggs and make himself guilty of the crimes of which he’d accused Steve. Almost.

Steve pulls out plates and forks and Bucky divides the eggs and they eat at the table in silence but it’s giddy this time, it’s all suppressed smiles and teeth in bottom lips. He is a grown ass adult but you would not know it to watch him, dropping his fork and fidgeting in his seat across from his crush and Jesus, crush, no, he’d passed crush decades ago. Crush covered it when they _were_ twelve, not just feeling like it, and he was stammering to talk to Steve after school to invite him to his parent’s apartment for dinner. Crush doesn’t cover meeting God under the weight of his body. Crush doesn’t cover being brought back from the dead by the sound of his name on this man’s lips.

Love doesn’t cover it. But love comes close.

“So about last night,” Steve says when his plate is empty.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “About that.”

Steve clenches and unclenches his hand on the table and looks at it instead of Bucky. Oh my stars and garters that poor man is as nervous as he is. Bucky bites back laughter. Captain America nervous.

“I hope that wasn’t… I mean I hope I wasn’t…” Steve says.

He’s going to say “...too much” or something like it and he wasn’t. So Bucky says, “You weren’t.”

“...too much,” Steve says anyway.

“You weren’t,” Bucky repeats to confirm.

“I suppose I got…”

He’s going to say “...carried away,” but it was fine. So Bucky says, “It was fine.”

“...carried away,” Steve says anyway. “If that was too fast…”

Fast?

“Or if you want to back off…” Steve says.

 _Back off_?

Laughter wells up and spills out and rises and rises until it becomes rude. Raucously rude, he’s tilting his head back and slapping the table and he’s probably going to have to apologize. But it’s so easy to laugh and so hard to stop. 

For Pete’s sake Steve thinks that _anything_ could _possibly_ be too fast after how long he’s waited or that he could _ever_ want to go back. The idea cannot coexist with his gratitude, just being in the same room with it is so twisted it’s hilarious. 

And laughing feels wonderful, it pours out of his mouth and having Steve there, even though he’s laughing at Steve and that’s kinda mean, makes it safe. He can’t see and he can hardly breathe and he can’t hear anything but himself but it’s okay, the cabin is secure and Captain America is watching his back. He lets himself enjoy it until it releases him and he wipes tears from his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says. “But God damn, Steve. Eighty years! We’ve been sitting on that for eighty years! If you think that’s fast I’d hate to see what slow looks like.”

“I’m trying to be considerate here, Buck, and you’re not helping.”

“So what else is new?”

“I just meant…” Steve says.

“I know what you meant,” Bucky says. “But you gotta know you could’ve come after me like that in Brooklyn and it would’ve gone the same damn way.”

“You would’ve broken me in half.”

“Could’ve. Wouldn’t’ve.”

Bucky reaches across the table and lays his right hand over Steve’s. When Steve looks at him Bucky retrieves from storage that suggestive tilt of the head that leaves him gazing up at Steve through his eyelashes and the half smile that goes with it. If memory serves, that usually had a good effect when he’d deployed it on others in the past.

“You can carry me away any time you want,” Bucky says.

It’s not a great line. But Steve turns crimson. He opens his mouth and closes it with a snap. He swallows and clears his throat and his composure cracks open in a wide grin. So that expression still works. File that one away.

“Might just do that,” Steve says, and turns his hand over on the table to grasp Bucky’s. He strokes with the pad of his thumb across the back of Bucky’s hand and, hm, they’re expecting SHIELD to show up some time today, but wonder how much time they’ve got.

“What’s SHIELD’s ETA?” Bucky asks.

“Ten minutes ago,” Steve says. “So, whenever they get here.”

Dammit.

“We’ll have to wait then,” Bucky says.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Steve says. And he spins that expression back around on Bucky so he can see it too. God _damn_ Steve’s eyelashes, that’s not even _fair_. Bucky practically melts into the chair.

The roaring in his ears takes on a new tone. There’s a sound besides the rush of blood Steve brought to his face, getting louder, with a mechanical whine overlaying it. They both take their hands back and turn in their seats to the window. Steve hears it too.

“Sounds like they’re here,” Bucky says, raising his voice over the increasing racket.

“They’re not subtle,” Steve says.

He stands with his mug and walks out the front door, leaving it open for Bucky behind him. Bucky fetches his shoes from the porch and pauses in putting them on to see an enormous variation on the theme of quinjet shimmer out of cloak and bank over them. That thing even has a standard quinjet on its back like a mother duck. It’s bigger than the cabin, almost as big as the lake, hovering in a deeply threatening matte black and buffeting the trees with engines that rotate within its wings as it lowers to the grass. They went and gave an office building VTOL. Only SHIELD.

“That’s new,” Bucky says, drawing up his laces.

“One of a kind,” Steve grumbles. He watches the plane with his brow and jaw set firmly, shaking his head.

First time Steve has had to deal with SHIELD since D.C.? Probably. And he’s not happy about it. But they’re still doing him favors so maybe they’ll get out of this one without a fight.

“You trust them?” Bucky asks.

“Don’t have much choice,” Steve says. “But they’ve been straight with me so far.”

Steve strolls down the gravel path with his coffee held casually in one hand and the other in his pocket. He’s not rushing for SHIELD. Bucky follows, as the engines power down and the ramp to the huge plane lowers.

Two of the black leather variety of SHIELD agent approach down the ramp, armed and armored. He puts these in a separate category from the shiny shoes and sunglasses variety, not necessarily more dangerous but refreshingly direct. The one on the left is glaring with her arms crossed and her shoulders set just so and her feet planted in perfect form and she’s compact violence who wants everyone who sees her to know it. Looks familiar. She was on the beach. She shot him. And looks like she wants to again. Odds of a fight increase and the books are only a point or two in his favor. Still can’t outrun a quinjet.

The other agent stands with her hands slightly out from her hips and her arms held tense like she’s at the shootout at the OK Corral. She seems less lethal than her compatriot but it’s unwise to assume. They meet at the end of the ramp and only Steve’s ease keeps offensive electronics in a resting mode. Bucky watches him for a cue that doesn’t come.

“Agent Johnson,” Steve says, holding out his hand to Wyatt Earp.

She’s slow about shaking Steve’s hand and takes it like Bucky would take an egg in his left. But she gets through it. Who in the world would think they could possibly damage Steve just shaking his hand? Well, other than him. Definitely unwise to assume anything about this one.

“Daisy,” she says. “It’s nice to see you again Captain Rogers.”

“Daisy,” Steve repeats, noting the name. He’s not gonna tell her to call him Steve. That’s a step beyond. He doesn’t. He nods to the angry one.

“Agent May,” Steve says.

“Captain,” she says.

Steve indicates Bucky with a wave of his mug. “Bucky Barnes,” he says by way of introduction.

Bucky nods. The agents eyes are on him, ready in wariness, but Steve takes a sip from his mug and puts his other hand back in his pocket and their posture loosens. It’s really rather difficult to be afraid when Captain America is calmly drinking coffee. If he isn’t worried, no one else needs to be. The agents nod back to Bucky.

“Yeah,” Daisy says. “Wow.”

You said it, kid.

“Is the ‘Director’ here?” Steve asks.

The quotation marks are audible in Steve’s speech. But Fury is… dead… isn’t he? Bucky had _planned_ that shot and he _knew_ he made it. Through the wall even. They’d woken him up for a reason.

“He’s here,” May says.

“Good,” Steve says. “I have a few things to say to him.”

So do I, Bucky thinks. Starting with “How are you still alive?”

“He wants to talk to you, too,” May says. She holds out an arm to the interior of the plane, and moves apart from Daisy to open their passage.

“Gentlemen,” May says. “Welcome to Zephyr One.”

Nice to see SHIELD’s evocative naming conventions being upheld.

The agents lead the way back up the ramp. The hangar inside is large enough for multiple vehicles but contains none. Seats line the walls, broken by a command station and webbing for equipment. The white vessel room that brought him here dominates the center and it occurs to him to wonder if he had been in this plane when he was asleep, after the beach. Paths lead off to either side, a staircase up to a balcony above. Animated voices carry from ahead of them, indistinct, bouncing around the bulkheads. It’s a mobile base. That would’ve been _so_ useful. _So_ many times.

Steve glares at it all like it personally offended him. Which Bucky supposes it has. Bucky is intrigued. In other circumstances he’d be poking around and asking prying questions about the fuel consumption and composition of the bulkheads. But they probably wouldn’t appreciate that right now.

The ramp grinds closed behind them. Coming around the corner is a man Bucky feels he ought to recognize though he doesn’t. This man is not animated. This man is balding and tired, in the good but faded suit Bucky associates with SHIELD higher ups. He looks at them with his lips a thin white line when Steve arranges himself in front of him. 

“Captain Rogers,” the man says.

“Director Coulson,” Steve says.

Oh, alright, so there’s a new director. That makes much more sense. He’d _made_ that shot on Fury. Though it feels wrong to take professional pride in it now.

But wait… Coulson is supposed to be dead too. There’s data on that. The question is still valid. How are you still alive?

“Good to see you up and about,” Steve says.

“Thank you,” Coulson says. “It’s a long story.”

“Some other time.”

Fair enough. He’s not the only one.

“Color me confused, Director,” Steve says. “I thought SHIELD was disbanded.”

“Only mostly. There’s still a few of us around.”

“And who do you answer to?”

“They answer to me,” Coulson says. 

“You don’t answer to the United States government?”

“Who do the Avengers answer to, Captain?” Coulson says.

Oh boy. This director’s got backbone. He’d have to, to head SHIELD, but damn. His face is blankness, betraying nothing, least of all offense at the line of questioning or victory at the turnabout. Bucky remembers being called to the principal’s office after particularly boisterous encounters behind the bleachers, and this feels like that. He should be too old for that by now.

“Point taken,” Steve says.

Maybe it’s being around Steve again. He’d always been getting in trouble in Steve’s stead.

“We’re here for the same reason you are,” Coulson says. “We’re trying to help people.”

“But you haven’t even managed to finish off Hydra?”

“You know how it is. Cut off one head…”

“Stop. I know.”

“I’ll cut to the chase,” Coulson says, and turns his schoolmaster’s countenance on Bucky. “Mister Barnes, we’ll expect you to debrief with us. I’m sorry but we’re going to need you to tell us where you’ve been, and what you’ve done for Hydra.”

“I assumed as much,” Bucky says. The least of what he’d assumed.

“We understand that’s going to take some time. We can’t stay and you can’t leave so agent May will be conducting your debriefing remotely. There’s a computer terminal in the bedroom set to an encrypted frequency. We’ll be expecting you to check in at thirteen hundred local time.”

“You trust encryption with this?” Steve says.

“Well I wrote it, so, yes,” Daisy says.

“Are you reporting this to other agencies?” Steve asks.

Coulson hasn’t looked away from Bucky. He doesn’t when Steve addresses him. That blankness lets no information out but takes information in, watching him. He’s being assessed but can do no assessment of his own. Bucky spent years honing that skill. And Coulson is better at it. Bucky’s eyes water holding his gaze.

“We haven’t yet,” Coulson responds, and resumes talking to Bucky. “We’re going to ask you to head into our lab and meet up with Fitz-Simmons and go through a medical exam. If we find what we think we’re going to find then there’s no court in the world that could establish _mens rea_ but we’re expecting a lot of them to try. There will be hoops to jump through but we will do everything we can to prove you weren’t responsible for what Hydra made you do.”

That’s surprising. Bucky controls the expression but it’s a close run thing. He’d been expecting the prosecution, not the defense. Especially from SHIELD. This new director’s got new ideas.

But hell, he needs all the help he can get.

“Good luck with that,” Bucky says. “But thank you.”

Coulson finally releases him from the assessment to turn to Steve. “Captain Rogers I’d like you to come with me for a moment,” Coulson says.

“No, I’ll be staying with Bucky for now, thank you,” Steve says.

Agent May blinks. On another person the expression would be wide eyed shock. On Daisy, it is. Coulson splits the difference, blinking twice. They’re used to getting their own way. They’ve never dealt with Steve.

But the assessment must show it’s not worth it to argue with him. “Then I’ll leave you to it,” Coulson says. “Captain.”

Coulson holds out his hand and is much more confident than Daisy in shaking Steve’s. When Coulson turns to offer the same to Bucky he is too startled to reciprocate immediately. Obviously he’s meant to shake Coulson’s hand, he just watched Steve do it, but for heaven’s sake this is the director of SHIELD making amicable gestures to the Winter Soldier? He can’t be serious.

But right now, he supposes, he’s James Buchanan Barnes. Standing next to Steven Grant Rogers. And SHIELD has feelings about those two. Fallen martyrs, standing heroes, both and neither. Minor deities in a minor pantheon. Damn that little kid and all the nonsense following him has gotten Bucky into.

“Mister Barnes,” Coulson says, hand frozen and waiting. Bucky takes it and shakes once and Coulson isn’t cautious about it. Man has a firm handshake. Good for him. Man isn’t scared of him. Fucking stellar for him.

“The lab is this way,” Daisy says.

Coulson leaves for the staircase and May follows. She tracks Bucky the whole way, she’s Coulson’s cover, that much is obvious. Locked and loaded, just in case. If he has to worry about anyone it’s her and it won’t be pretty. Wonder if Steve would be willing to jump in if it meant hitting a woman.

Daisy leads Bucky and Steve around the vessel room into the back of the hangar. The path ends at a glass enclosed room lined with inexplicable equipment, SHIELD’s finest technological pornography. Two very well dressed agents inside fuss around tablets and each other and they don’t belong. They’re too clean. When the door to the lab opens he can hear their argument but can’t understand it. Technical jargon even he isn’t versed in. He’s pretty sure they’re making up half of the words they’re saying but he wouldn’t put money on it. 

And it takes approximately ten seconds of watching their eye contact and brushing touches to get a bead on them. He’s pining, she’s hesitating, and realistically they’ve got about a week before something goes Bang. Good luck, kids.

The agents’ chatter peters out when Bucky crosses the threshold and becomes more important than their argument. Their jaws drop. They stare up at him, and further up at Mt. Steve behind him, and at Daisy, and each other, and say “Um” more times than professionals really ought to, before the boy says, “Hello…” and the girl says, “Oh my God.”

“Agents,” Steve says.

“Captain Rogers,” the girl breaths.

“Bucky Barnes,” Steve says, unnecessarily pointing him out. “Which one of you is Fitz-Simmons?”

The agents say “Oh!” together and smile indulgent smiles and trip over each other to speak, overlapping.

“Well we’re actually…” she says.

“Because I’m Fitz and she’s Simmons and…” he says.

“Doctors, Fitz and Simmons, you see…” Simmons says.

“We’ve been together since, I mean working together since…” Fitz says.

“Yes we’ve worked together for years and…”

“And we’re the science division so…”

“Fitz-Simmons is also a common name so people started…”

“We’re not one person but…”

“It’s kind of a joke, you understand…”

The noise is bewildering. Listening to one person talk is difficult enough. These two are getting shriller by the moment as they’re venting their nervousness and costing Bucky more focus than he has ready access to. The room is small and filled to standing room only with computers and medical accoutrements that seem to vibrate with their voices. Bucky steps back until he makes contact with Steve.

“Can they stop talking?” Bucky mutters to Steve under his breath.

“I don’t rightly know,” Steve says.

Steve’s hand is at the small of his back. Bucky takes a deep breath and straightens against it and some of Steve’s firmness lends him stability. His body finds a center at Steve’s palm. Something of the exchange must be evident on his face because Simmons’ eyes widen briefly and she shares the expression with Daisy before they remember to hide it. 

Great. SHIELD is going to have a field day with this one. They’ll be the talk of the water coolers for months. The Retreat might not have surveillance but Zephyr One certainly does. Yep, even a quick scan shows cameras in the corners. Probably a bad idea to show too much. That would overcomplicate things. Bucky steps forward, breaking contact with Steve. But he’s still there.

“Um,” Simmons says again. “I’m so sorry. We just can’t believe this. Captain Rogers, and agent Barnes, mister Barnes, I’m so sorry we have to be meeting under these circumstances. Can I just say, it’s such an honor…”

 _BAH-nz_. And _OHN-ah_. British. London. And more highly bred than a hilltop bakery. He is gonna have to try not to mimic the accent. He’s good at languages and good at blending in. But she’ll think he’s making fun of her.

And ugh no definitely not agent even if he is wearing SHIELD’s eagle on his clothes, and that’s about enough of mister Barnes, that is absolutely someone else, not him. He doesn’t know if he could even stomach sergeant again.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” he says. “And it’s just Bucky.”

A giggle escapes Simmons and a pink blush rises on her cheeks to match her sweater. “Oh, no, really, I can’t just call you Bucky.”

A sly smile starts at the corners of Bucky’s lips more out of habit than anything. Goodness, she squeaks when she talks. Precious little thing even sounds pink. She probably left the fruit bars in the cabin. This is an astonishingly nice day so far.

“I wish you would,” Bucky says. If she’s not going to treat him like a threat or a prisoner, he’ll play along. 

Simmons blush spreads down her neck. “Oh, if you insist. Bucky.”

And she giggles again and brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. Steve crosses his arms and sighs. Fuck off, Rogers, no crime in making a pretty girl smile. Besides, Steve’s luck with bright British brunettes is better than Bucky’s.

Fitz keeps his eyes resolutely focused on his tablet and one hand repeatedly smooths the curls on the back of his head. Maybe tone it down a little, _BAH-nz_. No need to get the kid upset. There’s no threat here. One thing at a time is enough. Steve is going to keep Bucky entirely too occupied to engage Simmons, even if she is absolutely adorable.

“It’s just that you’re…” Simmons continues, “You’re a legend. They celebrated your birthday at the Academy. There was a huge party, every year. And Tripp had a picture of you, with the Howling Commandos…”

She falls silent. Fitz finally looks up, and reaches out to touch her shoulder. You do that, kid. You do that.

“Tripp was one of our team,” Daisy says, and the past tense is dark in her voice. “His grandfather was Gabe Jones.”

“Oh, no shit?” Bucky says. “Yeah, he was a great man.”

The right thing to say. No idea who Tripp was but man, does he miss Gabe Jones. A sneakier wit and a cleverer mechanic there never was. Could’ve used him a thousand times over the years. Wouldn’t have put him through that shit though. Would’ve died a little more to watch that smile fade.

“One of the best,” Steve says.

Steve knows it too. Steve lost Gabe too. The agents nod and smile tight.

“Thank you,” Daisy says. “So was Tripp.”

Simmons walks all the way around the room to pass Daisy on her way to her equipment. She meets Daisy’s eyes and squeezes her arm before she continues on. Daisy looks down and away from the comfort. 

This is a damaged team. Bucky relaxes. It’s not guaranteed but it’s easier, for broken people to understand broken people. Maybe it’s not surprising they’ll give him the time of day. Maybe they can be trusted. 

And if they feel like they’ve got energy to spare on comforting each other, they’re not overly concerned with him. 

“Maybe I’ll show up to that party next year,” Bucky says.

“The Academy fell,” Fitz says. “When Hydra was revealed. There’s nothing left.”

“If anything you mean more now, coming back,” Simmons says.

Bucky sighs. The ascension to minor deity was unasked for and is unwelcome. Anyone thinking highly of him doesn’t have the whole story. 

“I don’t know that I want to be a symbol for anybody,” Bucky says.

“Well I don’t think he did either,” Daisy says, sending a nod to Steve, which he returns. “But you’re both stuck with it.”

True. Fair. Goofy little kid never expected to be doing stage shows in costume. Bucky can at least hope he’ll get out of this without being squeezed into tights.

“So we would like to run some medical tests?” Simmons says quickly. “If you would have a seat?”

She indicates a table with cases open around it and tools out in neat rows. Ah well. If he’s going to be poked and prodded again at least he’ll be in better company this time.

“Why not,” Bucky says, and sits down.

“I’ll be taking some blood samples if that’s alright,” Simmons says, pulling on gloves and retrieving a long needle.

“By all means,” Bucky says.

Simmons stands on his right side and Steve visibly winces when the needle penetrates his arm. Bucky can barely feel it. That’s nothing, Steve. This pales in comparison.

Simmons seats the hub in his arm and tapes it down and inserts a vial without shifting it, quick and practiced. Fitz carries on with his own equipment, moving between cases and adjusting settings only he understands. They’re young, and they’re small, but they’re not useless. Their eyes are alert and they’re confident and they deserve it, now they’re doing what they’re good at. So talking to heroes turned assassins turned patients isn’t their forte. Doesn’t have to be.

Daisy is just watching Bucky, watching him watching the room, and she’s stationed on guard at the door but at least now she’s lost the gunslinger stance. Not sure how much she’s learned about them but it’s enough to reduce the threat level. Close the book on the fight for now. Wait and see if May comes back.

“Do you remember if you were implanted with a trigger phrase that initialized Hydra’s compliance?” Simmons asks.

Definitely not their forte. That was a bit abrupt.

Do you remember if… It’s a yes or no question. No need to go into detail. No need to tell her about the chair. Or the book.

“Yes,” Bucky says.

“Do you remember what it was?”

Yes or no again but with an implied second question “What was it?” if the answer is yes. At least answering honestly will get him out of this line of questioning.

“No,” Bucky says. “But I’d recognize it if I heard it.”

An uncomfortable joke to break the line. Which earns him an uncomfortable smile.

“Well we’re going to try to avoid that,” Simmons says.

“You’ve seen this before?” Steve says.

Simmons swallows hard. “Yes.”

And that appears to be the end of that. Simmons focuses on removing the vial in the hub and replacing it with deft precision. Understandable, you wouldn’t walk to talk about it either, if you’d seen it before. They’ve reached an impasse.

Daisy moves next. “Sorry we can’t be more hospitable,” she says. “We lost the Bus and this thing just about has a minifridge. But if you want anything to drink, or, anything…”

They cover each other front back and sides. Good team. Damaged, but still good.

“Simmons is probably going to be taking a lot of blood, so…” Daisy says.

“We’re fine,” Steve says. “Thank you.”

Speak for yourself, punk.

“Speak for yourself, punk,” Bucky says aloud, though he’s surprised to hear it. “You’ve got coffee.”

Simmons stifles another giggle in her sleeve. Steve arches an eyebrow, but accepts defeat with grace.

“Pardon me,” Steve says. 

“Coke, if you’ve got it,” Bucky says to Daisy. It’s almost too much to hope for, Coca Cola after so long, but it’s free to ask.

“Yeah, we’ve got that,” Daisy says.

This day just keeps getting better and better.

“Thanks.”

The minifridge is in the lab. The only one that doesn’t have a sign taped to it saying “Do not put food in this refrigerator under any circumstances! This means you!” 

Daisy hands him a glass bottle with a pop top. On an impish whim he takes it in his left hand before she can open it and flicks the cap off with his thumb, just to see what she’ll do. It’s a little flex of power, non-threatening, kinda funny even, an opportunity to smile together or fall back on fighting. Either way. It’ll be good to know. 

To his satisfaction her eyes smile as her mouth turns downward at the corners, impressed. He winks. She grins, and fidgets with her hands before she turns away and takes up her station at the door. 

When Simmons steps aside with a vial to retrieve another Steve leans over and speaks in his ear in a conspiratorial hum.

“You old flirt,” Steve says.

“It made her smile,” Bucky says.

“That it did. And I’m surprised Simmons hasn’t burned a hole in the bulkhead.”

“Jealous?”

Steve smirks.

“Should I be?”

Bucky breathes deliberately in Steve’s ear and lets his lips graze Steve’s skin to whisper, “No.”

Steve shivers. Still got it, Barnes. Still got it.

Steve steps back and Bucky is so very glad Steve isn’t in his face and can’t hear the visceral sound he makes when he lifts the bottle to his lips. Nothing about Coke has changed. It’s childhood and calm and happiness and sugar, that’s valuable, but it’s peace and he wonders if Zephyr One has enough to spare. If they can leave some behind. Sitting on the porch in the next rainstorm drinking Coke would be so much like home it’s almost painful to imagine.

Simmons smiles at him, a bit of reassurance, as she’s seating the new vial and watching it fill. And she’s reading her watch, caring for his blood pressure of all the stupid things. Fitz glances her way and she looks back at him like she felt his eyes. Her smile widens and trepidation drains from Fitz, replaced with a careful smile of his own. These two are good. Sweet and good. 

And Bucky feels the old steel rise in his spine, the rebar that turns him into a wall between the small ones and the oh so dangerous world. They have May, and presumably Daisy, she must be wearing the black leather for a reason, but if they needed him too, he could see himself there. He is not good, and nor either is he small, and that’s really the point after all. Better him than them.

“Thank you,” Simmons says, and steps away with her vials to plug them into her computers. That bit never really stopped being strange, watching pieces of himself walking around the room. The pain became routine but the fragmentation… He turns away and takes a swig of the Coke. It’s comforting.

“So, mister Barnes,” Fitz says.

Fitz remembers and stops, and reaches up and flattens his hair. Nervous habit. This one would be an easy mark at the poker table. Losing hand after hand to Gabe Jones would have cured him of that but quick.

“Um, yes, Bucky,” Fitz says. “Would you please sit still for just a moment?”

Why is that name such a problem? It’s not like he’s asking them to call him Bonzo the clown for heaven’s sake.

Hell Bucky still owes Gabe twenty bucks. He went into the snow ahead of the game.

“Sure thing,” Bucky says.

“Thank you,” Fitz says.

Couldn’t even pay up with his grandson. Though that’s not a good thing.

Fitz holds his tablet in front of him with both hands, thumbing controls. From the table a swarm of drones rises, helicopter things buzzing toward Bucky and emitting beams of green light. They’re up into the air and in his face in a second, too fast, no idea what they are or what they’re going to do, and Bucky smacks one out of the air and it crashes at Fitz’ feet. Speaking of habits.

“Oh bugger,” Fitz says, toeing at the debris. “So sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. Those are analytical devices, not weapons.”

“Was that Sleepy?” Simmons asks.

“No, that was Bashful,” Fitz says.

“You guys don’t get out much, do you?” Steve says.

“What makes you say that?” Fitz says.

You don’t throw shit at soldiers, that’s what.

Daisy silently nods. Steve shakes his head.

“Nothing,” Steve says. “Carry on.”

The green light from the drones plays over Bucky from all angles as they swoop and circle and he scowls at them. It doesn’t feel like anything but you just know they’re invasive. And those flying fuckers are annoying. Doesn’t matter if they’re not weapons, they’re huge mosquitoes, and he just wants to stop them.

“Are you getting this Jemma?” Fitz asks.

“Yes. Oh dear…” Simmons mutters. 

She watches readouts on computer terminals, undoubtedly the data from the drones and her blood samples. Bucky recognizes the format and the general shape and doesn’t try to read it. He knows what it says. Simmons reaches for paper files and a pencil and jots down notes. 

“This doesn’t entirely match what we were given by agent Romanov,” Simmons says. “Fitz? Come take a look at this.”

Fitz directs the drones to land and joins Simmons without so much as a “Thank you for your time.” Looking at Simmons’ monitor he says “Bloody hell,” and grades the back of his head with both hands. These guys have some work to do on their bedside manner. But they’re still by far and away better than those responsible for the results they’re looking at and he’s used to causing shock in civilians.

Steve is reading their display, and looks like he’s regretting every minute of it. He lays his hand on Bucky’s knee and squeezes once before he lets go. Don’t go soft here, Rogers. You knew.

“That arm is amazing,” Fitz says to Simmons - Jemma? No. Simmons. She introduced herself as Simmons. 

“I mean given the technology they had at the time of course but it seems to have been upgraded numerous times,” Fitz says. “This is better than the tech on Mike Peterson.”

No data on that name. Nothing he’d ever been told about. Of course Hydra would have kept experimenting. But maybe it was after his time. He shrugs. But they’re not paying attention to him. They’re wrestling over the keyboard and turning monitors into a huddle around themselves.

“That looks like an independent processor directly connected to this neural linkage,” Simmons says, pointing at the monitor with the eraser of her pencil.

“That’s incredible,” Fitz says.

“That’s heartbreaking,” Simmons says.

Daisy clears her throat loudly. Fitz-Simmons startle and look back to Bucky, chastised.

“It’s alright,” Bucky says. “I know. I was there.”

“I’m so sorry,” Simmons says. “This is… complicated.”

“We were told that you were given a variation of the super soldier serum…” Fitz says.

“This looks like multiple attempts…” Simmons says.

“And the readouts from your brain waves are similar to other Hydra agents we’ve come into contact with…” Fitz says.

“Oh but what is this?” Simmons says, pointing at another display. “That’s completely different.”

“It’s all so slapdash…” Fitz says.

“Arnim Zola must have been throwing everything at the wall to see what stuck…” Simmons says.

“I know,” Bucky says again. “I was there.”

Daisy coughs a pointed “Ahem” and gives her colleagues a long lecture on empathy very efficiently condensed into her eyebrows.

“I’m so sorry,” Simmons says.

“Please stop saying that,” Bucky says. “You don’t owe me an apology.”

Simmons looks like she doesn’t agree with that, and takes her pencil sideways in her mouth to attack the keyboard with both hands rather than responding. That’s one way of shutting up.

But Fitz gives it one last go.

“I’m sorry we didn’t realize what Hydra was doing inside SHIELD sooner,” Fitz says. “We could have stopped this before D.C.”

And that’s not a bad thing to say.

But, could they have? What could they have done?

And even if they could have brought Hydra down and released him before the bridge, and the helicarrier… Would Steve have known he was still alive? Would he have remembered Steve otherwise? Would he have remembered anything, without Steve reminding him? 

They like that alternative but it sounds bleak to him. What use would it have been, to be freed from Hydra with nothing to return to?

Ah well. No sense crying over spilled milk. And they’re trying. Gotta give them something. He nods to Fitz.

“You can be sorry for that,” Bucky says. “Apology accepted.”

“I’d like to get a better look at your arm, if I could,” Fitz says, and reaches for something that looks like a screwdriver designed by a taxidermist working in the dark. It hums and flashes and while Bucky has no idea what it does, he knows exactly what it does.

Gotta play the party piece. Bucky sets the bottle down and pulls his shirt off, hangs it on the side of the table and holds his mechanical arm out to Fitz. The pencil in Simmons’ teeth gives an audible crack. Bucky smiles. That is not a familiar experience to these types of exams. Nice, though.

Fitz takes hold of his arm and manipulates it along every axis. Bucky tries not to help but for supporting the weight. Damned thing is heavy. Fitz makes appreciative faces and holds the tool over his joints, moving back and forth between Bucky’s arm and his tablet, taking readings and checking data and tapping at points that he must have some reason to believe are significant. Hell if Bucky knows how it works. They didn’t bother to explain it to him.

“I think I’ve found that processor you noticed, Jemma,” Fitz says.

“See if you can determine the frequency of the neural link,” Simmons says.

Fitz adjusts the tool and enters a command on his tablet and brings the tool down to Bucky’s bicep. Two of the plates in his arm shift apart without his input. Bucky frowns. It feels like skin crawling, like goosebumps, like something he hasn’t felt on his left side since before he fell.

“That feels strange,” Bucky says.

“That’s odd, you shouldn’t be feeling anything at all,” Fitz says.

Fitz makes more technological adjustments and moves the tool between the plates. The prickling spreads down to Bucky’s fingers and up to his shoulder and electronics twitch, forcing uncomfortable and uncontrolled movements. He grimaces and grips the Coke bottle in his other hand.

“How long is this going to take?” Bucky says.

“I think that’s it,” Fitz says. “Jemma, I’m sending you the frequency.”

And then the tool feels like everything. Pain flares up Bucky’s arm and into his head, sizzling agony he can see in streaks of red that blind him and tie him motionless to the table. That is the pain of nightmares. 

“Bucky?” Steve says.

The red light fills his mouth, burns his tongue, seals his throat. He wants to tell Fitz to stop, wants to reach out for Steve, wants to cry out and can’t, can’t move, can’t think, deactivated but for the pain.

“Bucky? What’s wrong?” Steve says.

And it winds into his ears, splitting open the doorway to sections of his mind where nothing good lives. The pain precedes the emptiness that precedes violence and he never could close that doorway, once they’d opened it. Only had moments to prepare. He bites off the red and forces out words.

“Stop,” Bucky says. “Make it stop.”

Fitz pulls the tool away but the blazing channel stays open, doors to storage hanging on their hinges and contents spilling out. Words seared between memory and moment, words he can’t remember except when he hears them except he remembers hearing them and they are being presented to him in the fierce light of their memory.

_Longing_

Oh God no.

“The words…” Bucky says.

“What the hell did you do?” Steve says.

“Nothing! It shouldn’t have done anything!” Fitz wails.

_Rusted_

There was no chair, there is no operative giving commands, he has no idea what’s going to happen. Fuck this plane is too small and those three are too fragile and fuck hope Steve’s up for this cuz this is gonna _suck_.

“Bucky?” Steve says.

“I don’t know if I can stop it Steve,” Bucky says.

_Furnace_

He sees himself reflected in Steve’s eyes. In his fear. In his sadness. Steve knows. And he looks like he’s about to cry.

Forget last night, there may be no coming back from this.

Not if he hurts those kids. There would be no coming back from that.

“Get out,” Bucky says to Fitz.

_Daybreak_

“Wh- What?” Fitz stammers.

“Get out!” Bucky screams at him. 

_Seventeen_

Fitz stumbles back and grabs blindly for Simmons and they bolt for the door. Good. Steve and the door should hold him enough for them to get away.

Bucky wraps his hand in a fistful of Steve’s shirt and hauls him into his face.

“Just keep me away from them,” Bucky says.

_Benign_

“What’s happening?” Daisy says.

“Do you hear me?” Bucky roars at Steve. “Don’t you let me hurt them! Do you hear me?”

_Nine_

“I hear you,” Steve says.

Steve holds Bucky’s arms down and wraps his arms around him at the elbows. They’ll start this with Steve grappling him. Clever.

They’ll end this with Steve holding him. Dammit.

_Homecoming_

“Whatever you have to do,” Bucky says.

“Daisy?” Steve says. “Be ready.”

“Understood,” Daisy says.

_One_

Bucky buries his face in Steve’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” Steve says.

_Freight car_

*

_Soldier?_

Ready to comply.

*

Fragments of directives come to the fore and set and setting are wiped away, all context irrelevant, only purpose remains. The commands are piecemeal, no clear orders, past missions shuffled like a tarot deck with all cards showing Death and that must be it, if he’s on a mission then whatever he can see must be the target.

What he can see is a strong body holding him immobilized. Take that out first. Get that out of the way.

He throws his head forward and connects with cartilage. It has no effect. He does it again and blood fountains down the face. The hold loosens just enough and he brings an arm up to twist at the elbow, turn and lock and force open the cage. He kicks out and drives the body into a stack of shattering equipment and gets to his feet.

Target. Targets. Four. Two in the room, two cowering outside, they can wait. Take out the big one first.

And there’s something in his right hand. Glass bottle. He smashes the end off on the table. It’ll do.

He hears a voice say, “Captain!” and the target say, “Get the hell out of here!”

The target comes at him. Blows land on his body but they’re not hard enough. He’s throwing a punch with his left but the target is dodging. He comes around with the bottle in his right and the target blocks it, sends jabs into his center mass. But he brings the bottle down under the block and draws a sweeping arc up, tearing through layers of the target, another on the way back. Doesn’t stop it.

The target says, “You see an opening you take it!”

Shoulders slam into his stomach and throw him into devices that becomes useless shards after the impact. He goes down in the pieces on his back and the bottle flies from his hand. Air explodes out of him when a fist connects with his ribs and the second it takes for him to inhale is the second it takes the fist to hit him again and stop him from doing it. Blood sprays down into his face with the breaths that the target can still take.

But his left arm doesn’t need oxygen and doesn’t need thought and lands a punch on the chin, turning the head and turning the focus. He takes in breath and rolls away to a crouch. Hard to see, blood runs over his eyes, hard to track. The target spins and rams a foot into the side of his head, stands as he’s disoriented by the impact. But standing makes the knees vulnerable and he throws his left fist out to strike one in on itself. The target crumples and meets him rising on the way down, a last solid smash that throws the target backwards and leaves it still.

The other one in the room hasn’t made a move. The door is closer. Two on the other side, standing by the window, looking in. Round them up before they get away.

He takes a step toward the door.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees the other one in the room raise both hands. He hadn’t seen a gun. No time to stop it now, it’s just going to hurt. 

No, there’s no gun, just hands, empty, palms out toward him. That’s not going to stop him and it’s not worth the attention. He takes another step toward the door.

An earthquake of force and noise slams him into the wall. His head cracks against shelving and equipment collapses onto him, driven into him. He’s caught in an invisible landslide and try as he might he can’t move in it, can’t move out of it. The air weighs tons and pulverizes him flat with just enough time to wonder what the fuck it is before he blacks out.

*

_Soldier?_

Go to hell.

*

He comes to on the floor of the vessel room, looking up at the ceiling. Gotta stop meeting like this. His head kills. He sits up slowly and regrets it, the hollow pain in his head makes him nauseous and he pulls up his knees so he can put his head between them. His arm tingles like they’d left a wire exposed and brushing the metal housing but it functions.

Not a good day. Worse than he could have anticipated. He can’t have one nice day. Not one.

He remembers everything immediately, that’s different. He hadn’t been in the chair, that must be it. Whatever Fitz did was different than what Hydra did.

Oh God Fitz… 

No, Fitz is fine. Fitz is fine and Simmons is fine. You didn’t hurt him. You didn’t hurt them.

Just tried to.

“You back?” Steve says.

And hurt Steve. Again.

Steve is sitting on the cot next to him. Can’t see anything but his pant legs and his shoes. Good. Don’t want to try to look him in the eyes yet. Bucky covers his face with his hand and expects it to come away sticky with Steve’s blood. It doesn’t.

“Yeah,” Bucky says.

Steve taps him on the shoulder and holds out the SHIELD t-shirt. Bucky’s bare chest is nicked all over by the broken equipment. But some of the deeper cuts have bandages on them. They took the time to patch him up. And cleaned the blood off his face. Who the hell are these people… 

“What happened?” Steve says.

“I don’t know,” Bucky says. “Never happened like that before.”

“It’s over?” Steve says.

“Think so,” Bucky says.

He pulls the shirt on carefully. Moving his head is a bad idea, white spots flicker in his vision, and he hasn’t had much to eat but he’s in danger of losing it. Every part of him aches like he’s taken a fall down a cliffside, and he can say that with accuracy.

Daisy stands outside, watching them through the window, and rubbing her arms and wincing. Behind her Fitz-Simmons direct other agents righting equipment and sweeping up glass in the lab. He’d done some of that damage, but most of it had been… whatever that had been… 

“Daisy,” Bucky says. “What was that?”

“She’s Inhuman. That was her gift.”

Inhuman. Well shit. He has data on Inhumans. Hydra was _very_ interested in them. Somebody could have told him about Daisy. But they weren’t supposed to be fighting, were they?

“Oh,” Bucky says.

And she took him out before he got out the door. Stopped him before he got to them.

“Good,” Bucky says. “I’m glad she was there.”

“So am I,” Steve says.

At least they’re okay. This time. They’re okay. He can remember that.

“You know if they got anything stronger than aspirin?” Bucky asks.

“I’ll ask,” Steve says. “I’m alright, by the way.”

Bucky groans. He finally turns his head to look at Steve, dreading it, knowing even though Steve sounds normal and he said he’s alright that Bucky is going to have to look at a torn and bloodstained shirt and crushed face. Again. 

But no, he’d at least washed his face and his nose is sitting at the proper angle. And they’d given him a clean shirt. Thank God. He’s never been so grateful to see that ridiculous eagle.

“And you can say you’re sorry if it’ll make you feel better,” Steve says. “But it wasn’t your fault.”

“Bullshit,” Bucky says.

He buries his face in his arms. God he’d seen the targets go up on Fitz-Simmons, felt the directives, and even the two steps he’d taken toward them was too much, far too much. Doesn’t matter what he wants, doesn’t matter what he intended, doesn’t matter if they’d reminded him so much of the good things he dies to protect if he’s the danger they need protection from. They have Daisy, that’s good. He needs to stay away from them.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says.

It doesn’t really make him feel better. Still required.

“Now what?” Bucky says.

“Don’t know,” Steve says. “This was their fault and they know it. They’re not blaming you.”

“Doesn’t change anything.”

“‘Course it does. Now I think they want to figure out how to keep it from happening again.”

“Let me know how that turns out.”

Steve taps a control on the wall, and an audio transmission he hadn’t even really been hearing shuts off. The ambient noise of the hangar, now muffled. They’re alone in silence.

“Anything I can do?” Steve says.

And what the fuck is wrong with that man? Anything _he_ can do? How can he even think to ask? Bucky is owed nothing. Bucky owes, owes SHIELD, owes Steve, owes the world. Owes people who keep giving and won’t stop. They patched him up. He tried to kill them and they washed his face. He tried to kill Steve - _again_ \- and Steve is trying to offer more.

It’s not right. It’s not fair. His debt increases, ever increases. 

But hell if Steve is gonna offer… 

Bucky leans against him, pressing the length of his right arm against the length of Steve’s leg. Steve plants his foot and supports the weight Bucky transfers. Solid as the floor. Bucky has to remember the cameras and stop himself from laying his head on Steve’s knee or taking his hand. Same as always. Never really alone.

“Talk,” Bucky says. “About something else. Talk about nothing. Just for a minute.”

It’s not much to ask for. Not a great increase in the debt. Steve nods and rubs his hands together for a moment, thinking.

“You ever had Korean tacos?” Steve says.

Bucky understands every word in the sentence but doesn’t parse it. It’s so far into “nothing” it doesn’t register.

“What?” Bucky says.

“Korean tacos. You know food trucks?”

Food trucks? Switch gears, the context is not combat, close that file and open general knowledge. Thumb through the records. There’s a logical conclusion to be drawn from the words food and trucks, trucks which contain food, but as a singular concept there is no data.

“What?” Bucky says again.

“Food trucks,” Steve says. “It’s a city thing.”

That explains it. He’d been bright enough to stay away from cities since D.C.

“What about them?” Bucky says.

“It’s just a truck with a little restaurant in it but it’s cheaper than opening a restaurant so all kinds of people can have one and do all kinds of food and you get some stuff you never expected. Like Korean tacos. I didn’t know if these people invented them or if you’d seen them somewhere else since you’ve been… everywhere… ”

Steve’s tone falters from levity, but he recovers quickly. He rests one hand on the back of Bucky’s neck and directs his story with the other.

“Cuz there was this truck and they used to park outside the Tower every day around lunchtime. And they do this fusion kind of food that’s just… It’s just amazing Buck, I don’t even know how to describe it. You wouldn’t think that kimchi would go on a black bean taco but man I’ll tell you what they made you _want_ it. We’ll track it down the next time we’re in the city. You’ve gotta try it.”

He’s rambling, but it’s beautiful. The white room fades into his voice and the weight of his hand. His fingers take meandering paths through the hair on the back of Bucky’s neck, drawing just a bit of the tension from Bucky’s bones, and _the next time we’re in the city_...

May approaches Daisy outside the window. He can’t hear what they’re saying but Daisy points at him and points at Fitz-Simmons and points back at him and if he had to guess she’s explaining what happened. And she’s on his side, because she’s holding conciliatory hands out to May and May is looking unsure.

“This old couple owns the truck,” Steve continues while the agents talk outside, “and he’s from Mexico and she’s from South Korea and they do the cooking and their kids run the front of the truck, like waiters but they don’t have to go anywhere you know, cuz it’s all in the truck. And I got to talking with them a couple of times, and they don’t speak much English, I mean their kids do but the old couple doesn’t, they both spoke Spanish cuz her family moved to Mexico City and she grew up in Pequeño Seoul and that’s where they met. And my crappy French makes really crappy Spanish and they took pity on me for trying but I mostly talked to their kids and the kids would translate, and man the stories they could tell. The world has gotten a lot smaller, Buck.”

Bucky gives in and drops his head to Steve’s knee. Isn’t it just like Steve, making friends everywhere he goes? How can a brick wall still be so human?

And _the next time we’re in the city._ It echoed through the rest of Steve’s story. _The next time we’re in the city._ He’d had to fight the Winter Soldier again and he’s talking about the next time we’re in the city. We. He still sees life ahead of them.

Fucking how?

“I love you,” Bucky says.

“I love you,” Steve says.

May taps on the window. Even she can’t dispel all of the magic Steve wove, but she tries. That glare is carved into her face, isn’t it?

“How is he?” May asks Steve.

He’s right here and he can hear you, Bucky thinks and does not say.

“He’s fine,” Steve says. “Your techs triggered something but it wears off.”

“We’re going to need some assurance of that.”

Steve unfolds slowly upwards. At the apex of his ascent he squares up, as if he expects the line of his shoulders to be assurance enough for May. It isn’t. Her scowl doesn’t waver. Steve motions to the controls for the door.

“Agent May?” Steve says. “A word please?”

May opens the door to the vessel room from the outside and Steve steps out. Bucky doesn’t even try to follow. She wouldn’t let him. And they’re going to have a flaming row and he’s not entirely sure he wants to hear it. He’s already nauseated. 

He gets to his knees, and up to the edge of the cot, and over onto it. Steve walked May halfway across the hangar before they started yelling. And he can’t read their lips through the window. But as their voices rise he catches words and phrases. And that’s worse than hearing all of it. Trying to fill in the blanks.

“-- use are they if they can’t even --” Steve.

“-- what we’re dealing with here --” May.

“-- let all this happen, you let Hydra --” Steve.

“-- been trying to stop --” May.

“-- the least of your problems --” Steve.

“-- can’t just let him remain in the state that --” May.

“-- going to do something, dammit!” Steve.

Bucky feels like a child caught in the middle of a nasty divorce. Minus the innocence.

Daisy sidles over to the window and taps a control. Their voices come through the speakers. Daisy meets Bucky’s eyes and nods. He presses his lips together with all he can manage of a smile.

_Thanks._

Daisy taps her brow with two fingers in a suggestion of a salute.

_Don’t mention it._

“-- going to call Wanda Maximoff and you’re going to get her down here,” Steve says.

“We are not running a taxi service, Captain Rogers,” May says.

Steve does not slam his fist into the wall, but there’s a cold pause in his voice where he could have.

“If your techs can’t do anything then maybe Wanda can. Bring her here or I’ll deactivate the forcefield and take him to her myself. Whatever you prefer.”

“I know he was your friend but -”

“That sentence ends right there. He is my friend. And if you can’t help him, I’ll find someone who can.”

“I’ll make some calls,” May says.

“You do that,” Steve says. “And we’re staying in the cabin in the meantime. You’re not taking him to some SHIELD black site because of this.”

“We didn’t intend to. We have enough on our plate without babysitting him. You stay here but he’ll still be expected to debrief.”

“That’s reasonable,” Steve says.

Fitz-Simmons bustle through the hangar with their tablets held like shields in their arms in front of them and Steve shuts up. The troops of knowledge end the battle. And now they’re looking sidelong through the window in new anxiety and standing shoulder to shoulder with each other and tears prick Bucky’s eyes. Bucky puts his hands together in front of his face, the gesture of prayer and repentance, and ducks his head.

_Please forgive me._

Fitz-Simmons straighten, a little. Some realization and understanding passes over their faces. Daisy moves to join them and says, “It’s okay, guys. He’s alright.”

“Oh thank God,” they say in unison.

And that’s not right at all. Bucky swallows around the lump in his throat. They are too good for this world. There had better be steel hidden under that sweetness or they are in for some unbelievable pain trying to exist in it.

Steve fields Fitz and talks quietly with him. Can’t hear it through the speakers. But Fitz nods and puts a hand on Simmons’ arm to let her go on without him and darts back into the lab. Simmons looks back to Bucky one more time before she starts up the staircase. And she waves.

It’s all Bucky can do to wave back.

The door hisses open and May eclipses the doorway. Steve stands behind her, both hands in his pockets, argument won and waiting.

“Come on,” May says. “We’re done here.”

Fair enough. He gets shakily to his feet. Kudos to Daisy, she can really fuck a guy up. Christ on a crutch he almost needs crutches to walk. 

“Fitz-Simmons are going to continue their analysis back at base,” May says. “We’ll keep you informed.”

“Thank you,” Steve says.

“And we’ll be in touch about your other request.”

If by request she meant demand. Bucky can hear the words hanging in the air - “It wasn’t a request, Agent May” - but Steve wisely lets them hang. They are so very nearly out of the plane without another fight. Steve favors his right leg as he walks. Neither of them are in any state.

The ramp opens onto the grass. The angle of the sun gives him a rough time, late afternoon or early evening, still no visible clocks in his life. Still a lot of time passing in unconsciousness because of SHIELD. That’s getting really old. 

The plane starts to hum, engines powering on. Off on their next adventure, poor souls. May escorts them down the ramp and deposits them at the edge, refusing to step off onto the grass.

“Tomorrow,” May says. “Thirteen hundred.”

Oh yeah. Oh won’t that be fun. He’s pretty sure he can remember what they want to hear. Though he’d rather forget it.

“Understood,” Bucky says.

“Bucky!”

Bucky stops and turns at his name. Fitz jogs down the ramp. He comes up alongside them and holds out his hand. He’s got something for Bucky to take. Take it. Bucky opens his hand and Fitz drops two oblong white pills into it. And from his other hand proffers an unopened bottle of Coke.

“Stronger than aspirin,” Fitz says.

He does not deserve these people. Cannot deserve these people. 

And his name sounded so normal in Fitz’ voice. Sounded like a person.

“Thank you,” Bucky says.

“The least I can do,” Fitz says. “I’m… I’m sorry. Truly.”

He’s allowed to apologize for this. It’s difficult to allow space for the idea that the activation of the Winter Soldier was Fitz’ fault even if he didn’t mean it to happen. Kid like that couldn’t have, would never have wanted to hurt anyone. But maybe this is how Steve feels talking to Bucky… 

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Sorry about the lab.”

“It’s just stuff,” Fitz says. “Everyone is okay.”

Fitz points to the pills in Bucky’s hand. “Jemma worked out the formula on those, so they’re from her too. Should kick in about ten minutes after you take them, really they’re just a strong NSAID so I wouldn’t take them on an empty stomach if you can help it…”

“Fitz,” May says.

And it’s all she needs to say. Fitz stops. And snaps his fingers, and runs a hand back over his head, and nods.

“Alright then,” Fitz says. “Take care of yourself.”

“You too,” Bucky says. “Both of you.”

The agents retreat up the ramp and it rumbles up into the plane behind them. Steve turns his back on it and walks back up the gravel path. Bucky pops the top off of the Coke and swallows the pills and moves to a safe distance but stays to watch Zephyr One take off. It’s worth watching. Blue streams of energy fire out of the rotating engines and stabilizers on the wings, lifting it from the grass. The roar of power is immense, what it takes to get the blasted thing airborne. It rises vertically until it clears the tops of the trees and engages its cloak, rippling into invisibility. It rushes unseen over his head and the sound fades away.

Bucky turns to follow Steve into the cabin. Home. For now.

As he mounts the front stairs Bucky’s mind quietly revisits the last thing he said to Steve, must have been important, what was it, _bloody hellfire_ and his foot misses the next step. Mother of God had he actually opened his mouth and told Steve he loves him? What on Earth made him think that was a good idea? He’s probably on tape, on SHIELD tape, the Winter Soldier telling Captain America he loves him. What the fuc-

Wait a second, wait a second, _had Steve said it back?_

Holy shit he did.

Of course that’s hardly news, hardly, of course they love each other, always have, of course, breathed lived and died for each other for years, but that was before… before last night… before fighting again… 

But… _The next time we’re in the city_...

They don’t know about last night. SHIELD doesn’t know. Maybe they’re still safe.

Safe from SHIELD. But safe from each other?

Bucky’s preoccupied feet manage the trip and he kicks off his shoes and opens the door. Steve is nowhere to be seen, the path is clear to the bathroom door and the light is off, and Bucky makes for it. Barricades himself inside and faces the mirror.

He doesn’t look as bad as he feels. Close, though. Minor abrasions on his face. His hair is a mess, falling out of the elastic. He borrows the comb one more time and drags shards of glass out of the strands. Removes the eagle and pulls off medical tape and gauze to assess the damage to his torso. The edges of the cuts are already knitting back together, not that he would ever thank Hydra for any of their bullshit. But they’re clean and treated with some kind of clear ointment and he can just imagine Simmons doing that, he doesn’t know if it was her but he’s sure it was her. Fucking hell. Bits and pieces.

He splashes water on his face just for the feel of it. And puts the shirt back on. Reenters the main room. There’s nowhere else to go.

The room smells astringent, cleaning chemicals. Steve has the mop out. For the love of God.

“You alright?” Steve asks.

“Don’t really feel like answering that question right now,” Bucky says.

It only takes Steve two swipes with the mop to get the mark off the floor. And it’s gone.

“Would you rather be alone?” Steve asks.

No. It’s a good question. It’s nice of him to ask. But Bucky doesn’t even have to think about it. Being alone means spinning in circles of winding thoughts and no, he’d rather not.

“No,” Bucky says. “I’d rather be distracted. What’s on the menu?”

Steve shrugs. He takes the mop bucket out to the front door and tosses the water over the porch while he’s talking.

“I can pull spaghetti together,” Steve says. “And there’s salad vegetables need eating.”

Bucky checks in briefly with his stomach. It has stopped roiling from Daisy’s assault and his subsequent unconsciousness. It does not object to the idea of spaghetti and a salad. That ought to sit. He nods.

“Sounds great.”

He knows where the spaghetti is. He went looking. Salt in the same cabinet and jars of sauce. SHIELD must be singlehandedly supporting some little grocery store somewhere, good for them. And it’s not hard to find a pot, fill it with water, dump salt into it, start up the burner.

“I said I’d do it,” Steve says when he comes back. But he’s smiling when he says it.

“Gotta earn my keep somehow,” Bucky says.

Steve opens the fridge and pulls out plastic bags of vegetables and leaves them on the counter. He finds a cutting board and kitchen knife and sets them next to the bags.

“Here,” Steve says. “Knife, carrots. Go to it.”

“You trust me with a knife?” Bucky says.

Steve lifts the knife from the counter and turns to face him. He spins the handle in his hand and holds it out to Bucky. And Bucky can’t help but notice it leaves the blade pointed in toward Steve’s stomach.

“Yes,” Steve says.

And it’s _hard_ to take the knife. But Steve is gonna stand there until he does. Steve is being dramatic. Making a point. 

Fine. Bucky takes the handle, as steadily as he can so the blade doesn’t so much as wobble. And Steve gets out of the way between him and the counter. Point made. Fine.

There had not been an overabundance of fresh vegetables on the beach. Fruit, yes. Fruit literally grew on trees in public places. But raiding Farmer McGregor’s garden hadn’t seemed advisable. He steals up bites of the carrots as he’s slicing them.

They’re facing opposite sides of the counter and can’t see each other and some of the tension has reentered their silence. God dammit. Say something, say something, there’s gotta be something to say that’s not about violence.

“Who’s Wanda Maximoff?” Bucky asks.

“A friend,” Steve says. “Someone else Hydra altered. She can control minds. She might be able to help.”

Hydra altered. Controls minds. There’s some data on that.

“She’s one of the Twins,” Bucky says.

“Yeah.”

Huh. Never met them. As far as he knew they were never in the same place at the same time. The Twins had been new and they were shuttled between bases and never activated, never sent out with him on a mission. But they were spoken of. Highly.

“I never knew their names,” Bucky says.

“Now you do,” Steve says. “Her brother’s name was Pietro.”

“Was,” Bucky says.

“Yeah.”

Nothing to say that’s not about violence. There’s not a single story between them that doesn’t end in death. Nice try. Fuck.

“And she’s a friend?” Bucky asks.

“An Avenger even,” Steve says.

“And you think she’ll help.”

“I think she’ll try.”

His debt increases and spreads further. He doesn’t even know this person and she doesn’t know him but Steve is going to get her to show up. He always does. Drags people into orbit around him. And doesn’t know how to let things be.

He sets the knife down on the counter. Safer than holding it in a shaking hand.

“Why are you doing this?” Bucky mutters. “Why are you helping me?”

He’s not sure Steve heard him. He’s quiet after Bucky has spoken. But he responds.

“Because you aren’t the Winter Soldier,” Steve says.

Arguable. But not a whole answer.

“What do you want?” Bucky says.

“I want you to have a chance. And a choice.”

That’s the nice answer, the polite answer, even if it’s true. SHIELD wants that too but they didn’t drop their missions to stay. The Avengers are without Captain America today and there’s a reason.

“What do _you_ want?” Bucky repeats.

Steve cottons on. The reason takes time to arrange. But Bucky can wait.

“I want you back,” Steve mumbles.

Unpayable debt. 

“Well you got this,” Bucky says. “For whatever it’s worth.”

Steve’s hand is on his shoulder. Steve spins him around, gently, but it’s not a request. And Steve’s hands settle on the sides of Bucky’s face, running his thumbs over the shadow of stubble already growing back.

“Everything,” Steve says. “It’s worth everything.”

He’s pinned under Steve’s eyes, blue shot through with steel. It had been so clear, the last time they’d stood in this kitchen. It would’ve been obvious this morning, it would’ve been so easy, if Steve said something so damnfool sweet as that, Bucky would’ve kissed him and it would’ve been right. 

And he wants to now and he can’t, he doesn’t know. Steve’s smart, he should know better. Bucky is too dangerous. Can’t be trusted. Steve shouldn’t be near him. Shouldn’t be saying things like that. Sure as shit shouldn’t be kissing him.

But _God_ Bucky wants him to and he can’t beg to God for it, God doesn’t answer prayers like that, but he begs existence itself anyway because _please_. 

Please don’t let last night be one past mistake. Please don’t say that’s all over, he didn’t want to fight, he didn’t mean it and he can’t promise it won’t happen again but he can promise he’ll hate it if it does and what he wants is _this_. Whoever he is wants _this_ and _please_ let Steve be stupid enough to kiss him, even if it’s a mistake it’s one he’ll make over and over again and Steve can be that stupid sometimes, run into places he shouldn’t ought to be and get himself hurt but _please_ he’ll try his damndest to come back and make it worth it. And please and please and the next time we’re in the city… 

And Steve said he loves him… 

And Steve kisses him. It’s simple and it’s not heavy but it’s _everything_. The brush of his lips is Thank You after all the Please. Bucky puts his hands behind Steve’s shoulders and holds tight, holds himself up. Drops his forehead to Steve’s when their lips part.

“You’re nuts,” Bucky says.

“I’ve been called worse,” Steve says. “But you know you were right this morning. Wouldn’t have mattered when, I’d always have gone out on a limb for you.”

“And fallen off and made me carry you home.”

“One time. One time that happened.”

Bucky smiles and shakes his head. Can’t stop Steve from doing fuck all if he’s decided he’s gonna do it. So all he’s gotta do is stay away from strange flashing electronic devices that fuck with his arm. Shouldn’t be too hard. And figure out how to deal with mind control when and if Wanda Maximoff shows up. Really hoping she knows what she’s doing.

“Besides,” Steve says, “I’ve been nuts for you my whole life.”

What. A dork.

And now it’s okay for Bucky to kiss him. So he does. And takes his time about it. And almost forgets dinner when Steve pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. Almost.

“Water’s boiling,” Bucky manages to say. It’ll boil dry and probably burn the place down if he lets Steve start biting him again.

“Got it,” Steve says, and lets him go.

And it’s kinda nice messing around in the kitchen with Steve again. He doesn’t argue when Steve takes the lettuce apart with his hands, that works fine for lettuce. He makes a face when Steve pulls ranch dressing out of the fridge but Steve’s allowed to have poor taste. He refuses to dress the whole salad if Steve wants ranch, he can keep that shit to himself. And even spaghetti sauce out of a jar smells good. Hell there’s no reason they can’t put good stuff in jars now, right? They’ve had ages to work that out.

And eating at the table without talking is a routine ready to be broken. They can talk now. Talk about something that doesn’t matter. Or doesn’t matter much.

“Fitz-Simmons is a trip, huh?” Bucky says between forkfulls. “They do not know how to shut up.”

“Well heck, Buck, they’re two peas in a pod. You can just smell the history on them.”

“God, what the hell do you think they smelled on us?”

Steve chokes on air and coughs. Bucky grins. No, not that, your mind is in the gutter. Nice to know you went there, though.

“And what’s the story on Coulson?” Bucky says. “You know him?”

“I met him. While I was working with SHIELD. He was… kind of a fan.”

“Had comic books for you to sign?”

“Trading cards, actually. He died before the battle of New York. Supposedly.”

“Guess it didn’t take.”

Steve toes at his leg under the table.

“Yeah there’s a lot of that going around.”

“Hey he’s not one of ours,” Bucky says.

Steve glares.

“One of Hydra’s,” Bucky corrects himself. “Hydra thought he was dead too.”

“He’s a good man, anyway,” Steve says. “And I think he’s a little sentimental about both of us.”

“Hence our luxurious accomodations,” Bucky says, encircling the room with his fork.

“Basically.”

“I’ll remember to thank him. Think he’s got anything for me to sign?” Bucky says, and winks. Steve smiles down at his plate.

“He might,” Steve says. “They made trading cards for the Howling Commandos.”

“Ugh,” Bucky says. “I hate that name. Who howled? Dugan? I never howled. Would’ve given away my position.”

“It’s history, Buck,” Steve says. “Who knows?”

The food’s alright. Fast cheap and easy but it’s real. And it sits. Gotta see if he can send a note to Simmons. Great formula on that painkiller, send more, especially if Daisy is going to be dropping by again.

They clear up the dishes, and he washes and Steve dries, no need to debate that one. That’s ingrained. Okay so it used to be because it was easier for Bucky to reach down into the sink but that’s beside the point. If it ain’t broke don’t fix it.

When they’re done Steve says, “Gonna hit the showers.”

And Bucky says, “Want company?” It’s a risk, but it’s one worth taking.

“What do you think?” Steve says.

“Pretend you’re a guy who’s hard to read talking to a guy who hasn’t had to try for a very long time.”

Steve hooks a finger under his chin and tilts his head up to kiss him. That one finger and the press of his lips are their only points of contact but they heat Bucky’s body entirely. And when Steve’s tongue steals into his mouth to coax his up he may as well have evaporated on it. Steve pulls back and even the darkness of desire can’t shade the summer daylight sky of his eyes, beaming down on him. Steve looking at him like that makes Bucky’s common sense take off and hide. Some things never change.

“Was that easier to read?” Steve says.

“Yes?” Bucky says. Probably? Hopefully?

“Come on,” Steve says.

“Right behind you,” Bucky says. Always has been. He turns lights off as he leaves rooms, hoping he’s done with them for the night. Rooms ahead.

Steve flips the door to close behind them and Bucky stops it with his foot. Old argument. Leave the door open, it won’t fog up the mirror. Close the door, it’ll be warmer when you get out. Never showered together before, never had to sort that one out. Steve lets go of the door but he leans into Bucky to kiss him, a complete blanket of heat Bucky falls under, and Bucky’s shoulders bump back into the door and it closes anyway. Alright. You win this round, Rogers. His lips are plenty consolation prize.

Steve has to stop kissing him to peel Bucky’s shirt off and hang it over the towel bar. Bucky grabs for his before he kisses him again and gets the fabric out of the way just in time. But Bucky stops him in his attempt. 

The lines he’d glassed across Steve’s chest are livid red. Steve heals at least as fast as he does, he’s not bleeding anymore, but the bottle left two gashes that converge over his right pectoral and they cross the scars. Almost certainly will become scars.

Fuck, they’d been so close. He holds Steve back at arms length. And he doesn’t know what he’s going to say but he’s going to give Steve an out. Just touching him would hurt him again, grazing across fresh wounds, he can’t do that. Nevermind, this is a bad idea, don’t worry about it. 

But Steve beats him to it.

“Hey,” Steve says. “Stop it. I’m alright.”

Steve runs his fingers softly over the cuts on Bucky that he’d uncovered, the ones that needed attention. It stings but no question his touch is worth it, no question.

“If you are,” Steve says.

No question. Alright, alright, Steve’s got a point. He’ll be careful, then. He can. He will.

“Good enough,” Bucky says.

And Steve finishes the kiss he started. They can’t quite agree on whose hands are working whose belts when neither of them are looking or talking with eyes closed and mouths melded but somehow the work gets done and pants and shorts fall to the floor. Tomorrow’s chore.

Steve tears himself away to start the shower and God help him but having that much of Steve standing in front of him pulls Bucky up short. Ha. Pulls him up short. Steve is taller than him now. Just that tiny little bit, just enough to remind him. And his shoulders are as broad - no, tell a lie, broader - and his arms as big around - oh, no, not that either, bigger around - and Bucky lets himself admire and sighs. He would have fucked Steve senseless at ninety pounds of sunken chest and sniffles. He doesn’t deserve to worship this god.

“Everything you dreamed about?” Steve asks wryly.

No.

It’s nothing to complain about, the way Steve looks now. Nothing at all to complain about. But he’d lost count of all the times he’d had to sit on his hands instead of reaching for Steve at home. He knew that it would have been a bad idea. That every time would have been tinged with fear. They wouldn’t have been able to listen completely to each other, having to listen at the walls for neighbors and waiting for the banging on the door.

Bucky knows that. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t mourn the fact that he couldn’t have wrapped his hands around Steve’s tiny waist while he kissed him just to see how far they’d go. He can’t show Steve that he’d wanted him even then, prove it on the body Steve left behind.

“No,” Bucky says. “I dreamed for a lot longer than you’ve looked like this.”

Steve steps into the shower and the cascade of water over his body makes Bucky’s mouth go dry. It highlights and magnifies, a river rushing over polished rocks. Rock hard, every part of him. Nothing to complain about.

And Steve holds his hand out for Bucky.

“So have I,” Steve says.

Steve is still reaching out for him. He’s been blessed. He takes Steve’s hand and shuts the curtain behind them and stands under the hot spray, warmed throughout.

Coming back from forgetting to Steve as he is made it easier. Sure, he’d loved Steve however he looked, but _this_ is the Steve who broke through his programming with a word. The connection between that man and the skinny artist hunched over a sketch on the busted chairs in Brooklyn is as tentative as the connection between Bucky and sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. Just memories.

But that man is kissing him now, and trailing his fingers through the water down Bucky’s back. When Bucky shivers, Steve smiles. And Steve’s smile is timeless.

Steve hands Bucky the bar of soap and stands back out of the water. Bucky rotates the bar in his right until it’s covered and reaches for the lines on Steve’s chest. He isn’t entirely sure it’s what Steve had in mind but it’s what he’s going to fucking take because he has to be the one, with a clean hand, wiping gently over the potential scars, if there’s anything he can do, anything, to cleanse, to heal. 

Steve inhales sharply, of course the soap stings, but he doesn’t stop him. Steve thinks his touch is worth it. Steve isn’t counting the debt. 

And sliding even the one hand that can feel through the slip of soap over the structure of his body is incredible. He can’t help himself from lingering on the scars too but they won’t wash away, he knows that, and it doesn’t stop it from feeling right to make them a little cleaner.

He’s slower with one hand than Steve would’ve been with both, but he addresses Steve’s arms one at a time, biting his bottom lip and not even trying to keep lust off of his face. Steve takes the soap back and lathers across Bucky the same, and it stabs tiny needles into the cuts on his chest but it’s fine, it’s fine, it barely hurts by comparison. And Steve is faster, Bucky is covered in a thin layer of soap before Steve is rinsed off and then Steve’s arms are around him and the glide of their bodies together throws his mind into happy fuzzy blankness. And Steve captures his mouth, with the water streaming down his face, and he’s drowning and drowning and it’s wonderful.

Steve’s fingers wander the front of Bucky’s body in indirect lines, tending down but roaming across too, finding and learning. He presses into ribs and rises of muscle like piano keys and plays slow music and Bucky can hardly stand it. His knees threaten to give out under the weight of Steve’s attention. 

Steve was right about being fast. It had been so different when he was. Last night Steve hadn’t given him time to think. He’d been game, every minute, Steve hadn’t taken anything that he wasn’t giving, but the stillness and leisurely pace is another kind of maddening, built in waiting with time for doubt.

But he doesn’t want to have to be blinded by speed to enjoy, doesn’t want to rely on that. When shutters of memory crack open he drags his focus back to the palms of Steve’s hands, pressed into his stomach, and his fingertips reaching around his sides, nearly dressing him with their breadth and warmth. And when Steve’s hands slide under his belly button and don’t stop Bucky’s hips arch up of their own accord.

Steve looks down at him, questioning. Bucky leans in and kisses him in answer, and Steve returns it greedily. They stand against each other from their noses to their toes and Steve drags his erection against Bucky’s and Bucky whimpers. 

“More,” Bucky says. “Please. More.”

Worked before. Works again. Steve groans, a deep powerful sound betraying his arousal at Bucky voicing desire. Bucky is a little proud of himself, finding Steve’s buttons and how to push them. Though he is kidding himself if he tries to think he is just doing it to get Steve worked up. Steve elicits it from him. Makes him weak and keeps him safe in helplessness.

Well, safe from anything but Steve. But that’s a fantastic little danger, isn’t it?

Steve rolls his fingers up to the tips and grazes them along Bucky’s shaft, so lightly the water falling from them causes just as much sensation, making him gasp. Steve kisses across his face and down his neck and lays his hand over him. His fingers close loosely, touching more than holding, and he strokes his palm across the length of him, down and back. Bucky moans into Steve’s shoulder and his hips buck again, and Steve chuckles. 

He’s a tease. That’s what it is. Steve is a Goddamn tease. And damn him it’s going to fucking work because when he finally does deliver… 

When Steve closes his hand more firmly and starts deliberately stroking him Bucky almost screams. God _damn_ him. Bucky’s head falls back, his every breath is an exclamation of pleasure, vowels and half words he knows will keep Steve going. 

He thrusts forward into Steve’s hand, his grip is just about perfect even backwards but his pace is so slow, he’s still just playing with him. It’s fine, it’s fine, he doesn’t have to go fast, he doesn’t have to. And Steve’s hair falls in his face when he kisses him, Steve’s tongue toys with the inside of his mouth, Steve’s breath is getting faster despite his hand as getting Bucky off is getting him just as worked up.

But the water pounding on his back and ringing in the tub is distracting. There’s a cost to going slow, in wandering attention. And it’s possible but it’s difficult to get off standing up. And they’ve got a bed. They could be in bed. Instead of trying not to slip on cold porcelain.

“Hold off,” Bucky says. “Just… not yet.”

“Alright,” Steve says, releasing his grip and replacing his hand on Bucky’s hip. He pulls forward, still teasing a little, and well, two could play that game.

Bucky rests his left hand at Steve’s thigh and touches with his right, playing with the tips of his fingers as Steve had. But it’s the most clearly he’s touched Steve’s cock and his heart isn’t in the teasing, he wants to feel, and wraps his hand around him. And having Steve in his hand isn’t that much different than having himself. Steve doesn’t have the upward curve he has, but he’s not different, not strange, profoundly human. He sits heavy and warm in Bucky’s palm and alright, so, maybe for that he’d be willing to stay in the shower. If it meant he didn’t have to let go.

But Steve grumbles and takes his wrist and pulls his hand away.

“Not yet, remember?” Steve says.

“Oh, alright,” Bucky chuckles. Honestly, there is no way he’d stop Steve taking him to bed for long.

Steve shuts the water off and pulls the curtain open, and Bucky has to let go, just long enough to get out of the shower. Bucky reaches for a towel but Steve intercepts it from his hand, flips it open and wraps it around Bucky’s head, shuffling it around in his dripping hair and making him laugh. He is blind and dizzy and at peace, because Steve is taking care of him and there is no safer place to be than under the hands of Steve Rogers.

Steve passes the towel down his shoulders and steps into him, pulling at Bucky to bring them back together and kissing him. He is undoing half of his own work drying Bucky off when he’s still wet. He wraps his toweled hands around Bucky’s right arm and pulls the water off but Bucky just takes some of his when he sneaks his arm up Steve’s back.

Steve towels his own upper body off quickly before he goes back to Bucky. Awh, can’t pull that trick again. But the phantoms of Steve’s hands moving behind the towel are delightful and Bucky leaves him to it.

Steve draws the towel down Bucky’s left arm, and the terrycloth snags between two of the plates of his bicep. Delight dissipates and rage heats. It ruins _everything_. And he can’t even feel the warmth of Steve’s hands through the towel on that arm. It’s too little, too far away to register on the sensors. No point.

And he looks up to Steve to apologize. Sorry for everything wrong, sorry for everything broken, sorry for everything different, for the time that has passed and the things they have lost, sorry for being nothing more than a rocky cratered planet revolving on its own bent axis around such a glorious sun.

But before the words are out Steve picks the snag from between the plates with his fingernails and moves his hands under the towel to Bucky’s chest. Moves on. Steve presses in to his heart, touching him now much more than drying him off.

No, that arm doesn’t ruin everything. It doesn’t ruin Steve. Can’t even budge Steve.

Bucky tips his head up and Steve meets him halfway, kissing him firmly and completely dismissing the pretense of drying him off. The towel falls forgotten to dangle in one hand and he wraps his arms around Bucky, staggering him back. They stumble into the bedroom, trying to hold each other and kiss and walk at the same time and only managing two out of three at any given moment. 

Steve shuts the door behind him. Habit. There’s no one else here. But it secures the room, turns it into a fortress. Steve’s bedroom. Their bedroom? Not theirs. Theirs for now. For now is alright.

Steve tosses the towel on the bedside table, good thinking ahead that man, and he turns the bedside lamp on. Bucky wants to turn it back off. It’s easier to see – not _see_ exactly but experience – if he doesn’t have to pay attention to what his eyes are taking in and he doesn’t want to miss this. Watching Steve is great, no doubt, but his hands are half blind if his eyes aren’t. 

Bucky sits down heavily when his knees hit the edge of the bed, leaving his face in Steve’s chest. And that’s fine. He likes that too. If the lights are gonna stay on then he can see all the shadows in the dips of the sculpture of a man he gets to take to bed. Find them all with his tongue, carefully, carefully around the new lines, and make Steve wriggle against him. And that’s fun.

Eventually Steve shoves him back so he can climb into bed alongside him. Their legs are still wet but not for long, wiped off on the sheets as they stretch out together. They wrap around each other and blend and merge and there’s so much skin Bucky isn’t sure how much of it is his, how much he’s touching and how much touched. He bows under the arch of Steve’s body, on his back with Steve kissing him down into the pillow, and he grabs it from behind his head and throws it across the room. Out of the way.

Steve keeps his teeth back but mouths down his neck and across his left shoulder, and it’s such a fascinating sensation, with Steve’s lips flashing in and out of existence between the skin and the metal, that he doesn’t even feel the urge to stop him. How Steve can stomach putting his lips to that scar baffles him but it’s Steve. He’s allowed.

Then Steve’s mouth draws hot lines descending his chest and Steve props himself up on his hands and the warmth of Steve’s body moves away from him. Steve kisses down the ridges of his stomach and his intent is clear and Bucky can just imagine Steve’s lips closing over the head of his cock and he _wants_ that. 

But the open exposure of the air of the room rushes over his skin where he’d had Steve pressed against him. Steve isn’t in his arms anymore and he can’t see Steve’s face anymore and he’s lost a connection and he needs it back.

He paws at Steve’s shoulder, hooks a hand under his arm and pulls up. Steve raises his head and turns enquiring eyebrows on him.

“Don’t,” Bucky says. “Please just stay up here.”

“I can do that,” Steve says, and lies down next to him, pinning his right arm. It’s okay, he can wrap that arm around Steve’s back and feel him, it’s okay, he’s there. Even if it means using his left and hearing the whir to reach up and touch Steve’s cheek.

“It’s not you,” Bucky says. “Really it’s not you.”

“You’re not gonna bruise my ego, Buck.”

Bucky turns on his side to wraps his arms around Steve’s ribs and kiss him. “Just need you close,” Bucky whispers against his lips.

“I’m right here,” Steve says, and shows him with a close embrace and nibbling kisses along his jaw. One of Steve’s arms pillows his head and the other braces his shoulders, Steve throws a leg over his hips and brings their bodies back into contact along every burning inch and that’s it, that’s where he needs to be. Enveloped.

The hand at his shoulders splays out flat and grips, moves down his spine and over his ass and grips again, harder. Bucky moans and nuzzles into Steve’s neck, licking at the salt sweat of his skin and kissing into the curve. Steve shudders and tilts his hips forward, rubbing them together between. They fall into a sway, bodies oscillating together, mouths taking necks and shoulders and taking each other, aimless and addled. It’s like being drunk, his head lolls on Steve’s arm, and he swims in it.

The tips of Steve’s fingers dig into the flesh of his ass. “More?” Steve says.

“I…” Bucky starts and fails. Yes. Yes, more. His cock aches, kneaded against Steve’s. His body has ideas and Steve has them too and God they’re good ideas. But reaching orgasm will take focus and attention he’s not sure he has, breathless and barely maintaining with Steve’s presence.

“You just…” Bucky mumbles, trying to explain something, to pull Steve into some understanding, “You kinda lose yourself when you’re getting off, y’know?”

Steve doesn’t say anything, but the arm under his head tightens and Steve nods.

“I got a lot to lose,” Bucky says.

“You won’t,” Steve says. “You’re here. And I’m with you.”

He peppers kisses across Bucky’s face. “I’m not letting go.”

Bucky lets out a shuddering sigh. He swallows and breathes into Steve’s neck for a moment, reviewing, imagining. Steve isn’t leaving. Nothing has ended, this is the beginning of something. And with Steve it can be something worth having.

Steve said he loves him.

Bucky reaches back and circles his left hand on Steve’s wrist, lifts with the most delicate control of machinery he has to guide Steve’s hand down to his cock. He leaves his hand there, draped across the back of Steve’s while he touches him, finds that hold and that rhythm he’d found in the shower and the ache is satisfied. His mind whirls but his body has confidence, streaking bright light through the spiraling thoughts with Steve’s strokes and his kiss and his grumbling moans, Steve’s enjoyment at the pleasure he gives. 

It’s difficult, it’s taking work, with his eyes screwed shut and a constant litany of reminders to feel, don’t think, feel, don’t think, but he lets Steve touch him, lets himself thrust into Steve’s grip. He tightens his hand on the back of Steve’s and Steve responds, squeezing his fingers just enough, speeding his hand just enough, wrapping his other arm around Bucky and holding him. The lights illuminate the path and yeah, if Steve keeps doing that, he is gonna come.

“God Steve,” Bucky whimpers. “God yes don’t stop.”

“I’ve got you,” Steve says. “You’re here. I’m here. 

He is. They are. Bucky is here, in Steve’s control, the focus of Steve’s desire for something, and anything, whatever he wants, is Bucky’s focus too. Being… his. Bucky digs the fingers of his free hand into Steve’s arm, reeling, closing in…

Lights flare and he gasps and buries his face in Steve’s shoulder.

“Steve… God… Please… Tell me you love me.”

“I love you,” Steve whispers in his ear. “I’ve got you. I love you.”

And the touch of the words is what it takes. Bucky kisses him fiercely, stifling his cries in Steve’s mouth, and the lights explode outward. His back contorts and he convulses in Steve’s arms, uncontrolled movements welcome here, safe here, so fucking good here, and he rides them against Steve’s body to his contented sighs.

Tension drains from him like receding water and he collapses boneless and panting. And Steve gently kisses the side of his face, saying, “Thank you.”

“I can’t believe you’re thanking me for that,” Bucky mutters.

“Thank you for giving me that,” Steve says.

Steve reaches over him and past him to take the towel from the table. Good thinking ahead indeed. It’s still a little damp and cold and uncomfortable but when they’re sufficiently wiped off Steve drops it and lies down on his back and wraps Bucky close to curl up on his chest. And that’s warm, and that’s comfortable, and being damp with sweat besides is completely different. That’s fine.

“Anything you want,” Bucky says.

Steve chuckles and kisses his forehead. “I just want you,” Steve says.

Bucky grumbles. Dunno what that means. He’s something, he’s someone, but if it’s the same thing Steve sees and the same thing Steve wants, that’s unknown. He’s not the face in the sketchbook but Steve’s smart, Steve knows that. He’s not the Winter Soldier… most of the time… he thinks… he hopes… but Steve knows that too.

“Hey,” Steve says, and shrugs Bucky’s head up from his chest to look at him, quietly serious. “I want you. Do you believe me?”

No. Can’t. Wants who? What’s left of that longing childhood in Brooklyn is in him but what else besides. But Steve means what he says. Gotta believe he’s telling the truth at least.

Bucky nods, even though it’s a lie, unable to speak.

“I love you,” Steve says, cupping Bucky’s face in his hand. “Do you believe me?”

No. But Steve’s hand now barely fits on his cheek, reaches from his eyes to his neck, and he was on the helicarrier too. That childhood in Brooklyn went through Erskine’s changes and went through war and went through Hydra and couldn’t have been unchanged and Bucky can still say he loves him. Easily. Has to give Steve the same credit, even if he’s wrong.

He nods again.

“Whatever this is, I want more of this,” Steve says.

Yes. Yes. God yes. Oh yes he can agree with that, nod emphatically to that and say, “Yes,” out loud. Sort out “whatever this is” later, less important, because it’s wanted regardless.

Steve rolls under him and Bucky comes up onto his knees, now supporting himself over Steve between his legs. Steve winds his fingers into Bucky’s hair, stares Bucky full in the face and _watches_ him when he clenches his fists and soft pain makes Bucky whine and his eyelids flutter. And Steve’s erection throbs against his stomach. Steve’s eyes narrow and he clamps his teeth together, he’s got a little more control over that fire but only a little. Bucky trembles, anticipating, Steve’s just getting started, and either Steve doesn’t notice or he doesn’t care. 

“Anything I want?” Steve says.

Oh, had he said that? Oh, yeah, he had. His mind flips through a Rolodex of possible options for definitions of “anything,” filters the list through “anything Steve could possibly want,” compares the results with the expanse of his willingness, and finds it all acceptable.

“Yes,” Bucky says.

“Then I want your mouth on me.”

And that’s vague enough that Bucky can be an asshole about it even if he knows exactly what Steve is telling him and is eager to oblige. He moans acquiescence and bites softly down Steve’s neck, smiling at Steve’s pleased sigh. And he takes the long way around, avoiding the lines, nibbling at Steve’s skin and taking him in small bites before he has to quit using his teeth.

Steve runs his hands through Bucky’s hair, not directing yet but just encouraging. He hisses when Bucky rakes his teeth over his nipple and moans when Bucky licks it to soothe. His whole body jumps when Bucky nips at his ribs, he’s still ticklish, that’ll be fun later. At his hips Bucky drops back on his haunches to free use of his hands and dedicates his right to Steve’s cock, his left to stability. He takes Steve in his hand first, to learn the texture of him and commit it to memory. But sliding his fingers across Steve’s tip and feeling arousal smear on his fingers makes him desperate to taste and he is just never going to be the kind of tease Steve can be. Doesn’t have the patience. 

He licks the head of Steve’s cock, tastes the salt tang of him, and moans. He’d not managed to get through a sexually charged adolescence without tasting himself on the mouths of girls after but alongside the _heat_ and the silk soft skin it’s all new and _Jesus_ he actually likes it. Well fuck there’s a first time for everything and alright so he’s probably not going to be impressing Steve with technique, though he can extrapolate backwards from receiving it’s been a minute and that’s an imperfect method besides, and then Steve pushes his head down and he’s just going to have to figure it out.

He figures out that he loves the hot pressure of Steve sliding along his tongue, figures that out quick. He figures out just enough suction to keep Steve in his mouth but still moving easily, that takes a couple of false starts. And he figures out how much he can still get his tongue around, dragging it up the underside of Steve’s cock and over the head on each upswing. 

But when that happens is not his choice. Steve keeps control, hands rough in Bucky’s hair, pulling him down and back at the rhythm he wants and Bucky knows he’s just along for the ride.

And Steve grumbles “Fuck, Bucky, your mouth…” in the stratosphere above him and figures he must be doing alright.

Steve’s hips lift off the bed, he sets a punishing depth quickly and edges into Bucky’s throat and he can’t breathe and doesn’t care. Tears rise in his eyes and he’s sniffling through snot to breathe through his nose and his face and his hand are drenched in his own spit and he’s an absolute mess and he doesn’t care. He sorts out Steve’s tempo and quiets sensors pinging danger in the back of his head. Choking on Steve’s cock and sputtering to continue ought to be frightening. Being so used ought to be infuriating. But… it’s Steve. He can be trusted. And Steve wants him. Steve can do whatever he wants to him.

Pain blooms through the thoughts in his head when Steve fists his hair. Steve is panting and starting to shake.

“Open your eyes,” Steve says.

He hadn’t noticed closing them. But he must have, spending attention on what he’s doing.

Bucky opens his eyes. It’s a small torment to endure. Worth it. To watch Steve build up and bare his teeth and meet Bucky’s eyes, staring down carnality until it’s edged out by inevitable shock when he grips Bucky tight to hold him still and shouts his release. He spasms in Bucky’s mouth and spills out on his tongue and Bucky has to _focus_ not to close his eyes again to feel and to taste instead. But he doesn’t lose it all, he experiences it, pulses on his tongue and a taste he’d sooner pass on, Steve isn’t magic, he’s human after all, but Bucky swallows and it’s mostly his own spit anyway.

And Steve’s face splits in amazement, and that is worth seeing.

Steve sags back spent and releases his hair, but he lays his hand on the back of Bucky’s head and suggests an upward trajectory, _Get back up here_ that doesn’t need to be said and is understood. Bucky lies down on his left arm, he gets to pick this time, so he can wrap the right around Steve’s waist and rest his head on his shoulder.

“Can I thank you for that?” Steve says.

Bucky shrugs.

“Sure,” Bucky says. “But I think I know why you were thanking me before.”

“Then we’re even.”

Bucky grabs for the towel on the table, he has some dignity, and wipes at his face. Steve takes the other end to the mess at his crotch and when their eyes meet between they both break into a crazed grin. Images that will never appear in the history books.

“Gotta say I never figured you for the rough type,” Bucky says, and blows his nose in the corner of the towel.

“Never was,” Steve says. “But there’s something about the way you moan when I pull your hair…”

Bucky shakes a finger in his face.

“You are not blaming me for this. You started biting first.”

“And you loved it.”

“That’s… true.”

Steve drops the towel and rolls to his side to cradle Bucky in his arms. His heart beats hard and steady against Bucky’s chest, a whole, healthy cadence. The missed years matter but there’s something to be said for doing this now, now that he doesn’t have to be afraid of breaking Steve, now that Steve could break him if he wanted to. Steve had been breaking his heart his whole life. And had finally let him this close.

“Besides I don’t think rough is fair,” Steve says. “I’m not hurting you. Am I?”

“No,” Bucky says, “but if you wanted to, that might not be all bad.”

Steve scoffs and flicks his ear. And that hurts! But that’s not what he meant!

“Ow!” Bucky says. “What? This is fun! You’re a fucking animal, Rogers!”

“Language,” Steve says.

Bucky stares dumbfounded daggers at Steve.

“Excuse me?” Bucky says. “Language? Are you fucking kidding me? That’s something, coming from you.”

“Sorry. It just slipped out.”

“Watch me go down on you again, I’ll show you language,” Bucky says. “I’ll get barracks language out of you, just you watch.”

“Give me a minute!” Steve laughs. 

Bucky shakes his head and Steve shuffles around him, fitting him into the contours of his shape. And alright, he can give Steve a minute. Cuddling is nice.

“Why are we arguing?” Bucky says.

“Because we’re awake?” Steve says.

Bucky smiles. True. Fair.

Giving Steve a minute becomes many minutes. Cuddling is _really_ nice. Steve plays idly with his hair, and his hand roams Steve’s back in random patterns, slowing as the aftereffects of their exertion catch up with him. He’s comfortable, as comfortable as he’s ever been, and awash in happy exhaustion, and he yawns. 

“I’m about done with being awake,” Bucky says.

“Then go to sleep,” Steve says. “I’ll be right here.”

Sleep sounds great. If… If it’s safe. The slip into the darkness of sleep is like the other slip, not quite but enough. He tracks through his mind, rattling the handles of the doors on violence, and finds them all locked. Finds only a pleasant heaviness, calling. As safe as it ever is.

And Steve is right here. Not for security, not to fight, just to be. 

“I love you,” Bucky mumbles.

Steve presses his lips to Bucky’s forehead. “I love you,” Steve says. “Goodnight.”

Steve turns off the bedside lamp. He retrieves his cell phone, he’s probably got checking in to do with SHIELD, but he does it silently. And the glow of the screen is akin to moonlight, and Steve’s shoulder is vastly superior to the pillow, and Bucky closes his eyes.

And hears echoes, played and replayed, as the rise and fall of Steve’s chest rocks him into sleep. I love you. I love you. Goodnight. I love you. I love you. Goodnight. I love you. I love you. Goodnight.

*

He wakes in the dark to the grind of bedsprings and rustle of sheets, and smiles when he feels breath on the back of his neck.

He nestles into Steve’s arms, and goes back to sleep.


	3. Something To Take Care Of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day three at the Retreat. Bucky has to debrief with Agent May. But the rest of the day is spent with Steve. And nothing is ever perfect, but some things are pretty good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I challenged myself to write an entire chapter of fluff, just to see if I could. Turns out fluff is a slog for me and between that and bouts of illness that had me laid up this took for-ev-ver. Thanks for sticking with me!
> 
> And there’s no great tag for this because consent is intact but “dubious motivations that aren’t really healthy” isn’t really a thing so I thought I’d mention it. Bucky is messed up you guys.

Sunlight rouses Bucky into hazy half consciousness. His dreams dissipate and fade, and the bedroom coalesces around him in a blink. The walls waver as clouds pass the sun and resolidify when they move on and the light douses the room. Curtains, he thinks. That’s what this room is missing. If they had curtains, he could sleep in. Steve could sleep in a sling under the sun itself but Bucky needs darkness. Wonder what he can mock up while they’re here. Apparently they won’t be needing the sheets on the other bed, for instance.

Steve’s arm falls across Bucky’s chest and muscles reflexively tense in his shoulders. He can’t help but flinch at a sudden touch from sleep but that’s all it is, one flinch before he relaxes. He remembers. He’s sleeping with Steve. Waking up with Steve. 

Not the first time. Though the last time was in an age so long past they had been roughly the same size. Bucky smiles to himself when the thought occurs that they are again, on the other side of growing up and liberal application of scientific wonderment. And now Steve produces warmth in bed instead of just soaking up his. Doesn’t need him. Just wants him.

And if Bucky gets very lucky, he’ll have time here for the flinching to fade.

Steve lies on Bucky’s left with his chin resting on the metal shoulder, and that can’t be comfortable but Steve’s not awake enough yet to be bothered. He tucks his hand under Bucky’s waist and pulls him close, seeking even in sleepiness, and Bucky is glad that he’s awake enough to enjoy it.

“G’morning,” Steve mumbles.

“Mm hmm,” Bucky mumbles back. So far so good.

Bucky turns his head to look and Steve’s eyes are closed. He’s stopped moving and he’s breathing slow. He might have just gone back to sleep. No big deal, they’ve got nothing in particular to do for a while. And Steve’s peace radiates. Bucky can match his breath and be still and leisurely regain awareness. The Retreat is secure, there’s no patrol to walk or station to take. There’s time for rest. Time to bask in the warmth of the sun and the beauty of Steve’s face.

Steve’s hair is set alight and Bucky’s right hand moves unthinking to trail his fingers through it, playing with shine and shadow. He caresses flashing strands and is caressed by their smoothness, even as they catch in the calluses on his hand. He’d never been able to touch, with the delicate hands he grew out of and worked away, but he can now.

Steve’s hair is the same color. Bucky doesn’t know what it felt like then but it’s the same color. Hasn’t even started to go gray. Bucky finds more and more gray in the hairs on his face whenever he looks but there isn’t any on Steve. Solid gold. Wonder exactly what their age difference works out to now, after all the frozen time. Or if it matters since the experiments changed so much about how their bodies work.

Wonder how much time they’ve got.

Steve hums a tuneless song of comfort and Bucky takes it as permission to keep touching him. He smooths Steve’s brow and continues the curve down his jaw, feeling the sharp line he can plainly see. He scrapes light blond hair on Steve’s chin, apparently the man does actually have to shave, and traces across Steve’s lips and hears him sigh. He’s awake. Steve parts his lips and breaths soft over the tips of Bucky’s fingers and a thrill runs up his arm. Good thing Steve’s awake. It’s just not right to keep this up if he isn’t.

Steve’s hand drifts across Bucky’s stomach and up his chest, lifts to wrap around his wrist and hold his hand still. Steve kisses the tips of his fingers, and the palm of his hand, and the pulse at his wrist, eyes still closed and navigating by feel to return Bucky’s attention. He catches Bucky’s thumb gently between his teeth and the tip of his tongue brushes against the print. Even in morning fuzziness Bucky knows he wants more of that and straightens his finger into Steve’s mouth, slowly, burning for the warm wetness it finds. Steve’s lips close at the join with Bucky’s palm and suction pulls his finger completely into the heat of Steve’s mouth and it lights in his blood. _Jesus_ it is a good morning.

Steve’s hand at Bucky’s wrist tightens and he draws back and forth, working at Bucky’s thumb with the hot velvet of his mouth and fusing connections in Bucky’s brain between the sensitive places. Bucky’s mouth hangs open, panting chapping his lips, watching Steve’s full mouth fuller around his finger. Steve woke up wanting. He’s making muffled sounds of desire around Bucky’s hand and he swells to hardness and nudges against Bucky’s thigh with slow rolls of his hips.

And it’s hypnotizing. Bucky is unable and unwilling to move, to risk change and end, with Steve getting himself riled up sucking at him and rubbing against him. He didn’t ask for this. He didn’t have to ask for this. Steve _wants_ him. 

Of course _he_ wants _Steve_ , any way he can have him, who wouldn’t? His body is on top of things and he’s standing erect in the air, his hips shift when Steve’s do, instinctively searching for friction and finding none and aching for it. But _Steve_ wants _him_. Without prompting, for his own reasons. They can’t be good reasons. But Bucky’s not stupid enough to try and stop him.

Steve opens his eyes and he can’t speak with his mouth occupied but his eyes say plenty. They reflect in the sunlight and spear need into Bucky from his face down the center line of his body and ending at his cock, and Steve furrows his brow and closes his teeth on Bucky’s thumb staring at what he wants. And Bucky can put two and two together. If Steve is interested in using his mouth Bucky is going to fucking let him this time.

He slips his finger from between Steve’s lips to a little disappointed grumble, and says, “You can if you want to,” to make up for it. 

Steve’s eyes return to his face. He doesn’t release Bucky’s wrist, holds and strokes his fingers down Bucky’s forearm, and fights the hunger out of his eyes to show concern. His priorities are comforting, but the difficulty of the fight shows. His shoulders twitch like his body is trying to haul him down between Bucky’s legs and he has to rein it in.

“If you want me to,” Steve says.

Bucky nods. This is different to the night before. He’s still slow from coming awake and his mind hasn’t spun up to a whirl. The sun is touching his skin all over and he can spare the full contact with Steve, or at least it’s worth a try. Because _God_ Steve wants him _bad_ and that’s irresistible. He’ll give it a shot.

Steve’s eyes narrow over a crooked smile. He licks out at the pad of Bucky’s thumb, showing Bucky his tongue sliding over his lips, showing him slow to make a promise and showing off dexterity to make Bucky shiver, imagining. Is he making this up as he goes along or did someone teach this little shit how to make a man _crave_?

“Say it,” Steve says.

Bucky groans and closes his eyes. Bossy motherfucker. He’s pretty sure he can say it but not sure he can say it looking Steve in the eye. Son of a bitch. They both know what they both want but Steve’s gonna make him actually say… Fuck he doesn’t even remember what the word “cock” sounds like in his own voice anymore.

Steve doesn’t tell Bucky to open his eyes. One torment at a time must be enough. But _damn_ him Bucky is going to obey. Has to. It’s built in at bone level. On the playground and the battlefield. Even when he’s being an ass.

“I want you to suck my cock,” Bucky says, as fast as he can.

So that’s what that sounds like.

Steve grabs for his face to kiss him and bury his tongue in Bucky’s mouth. He gives rewards for his torments, at least. And he kisses Bucky like a man starving and thrusts his hips hard into Bucky’s thigh, suddenly frenetic, a switch flipped at hearing Bucky talking dirty. If Bucky wasn’t so mindlessly captivated himself and immediately returning Steve’s desperation he might have thought he could take advantage of that knowledge. But he is. Completely consumed by the force of Steve’s kiss and whimpering under the onslaught. Forget his cock, if Steve keeps kissing him like this he might come anyway.

But Steve pulls back to breathe, and he says, “I like the sound of that,” and even though that was obvious it’s still a fantastic thing to hear.

Steve rises over him and shoves a knee between his legs. When Bucky spreads his legs Steve lays out between them on his stomach and he doesn’t waste any time. He props himself up on one elbow and props Bucky’s cock up in his face with the fingers of the other hand and runs his tongue in one swipe from his base to his tip. Bucky groans and Steve takes him completely into his mouth. Bucky shouts and Steve hollows out his cheeks, sucking greedy at him.

The pleasure overwhelms him fast. So warm and wet and deliberate that Bucky can’t even process what he’s feeling. Steve’s tongue or his lips, his palate or his fingers quickly slick with his own saliva. Bucky’s mechanical fingers clench and click and he wraps them in the sheets to soften the noise, grips them so tight he expects them to tear and the purr of machinery is loud anyway.

Then Steve’s head bobs to take him down over and over and he’s immersed, the slip of Steve’s mouth is blinding, deafening, the only part of his body accepting incoming data. Steve’s keeping his promise and showing the dexterity of his tongue and it’s _amazing_ , it ought to be _heaven_ , but Bucky’s heart races and his head swims and he’s rudderless in it and maybe he’s not okay. God it feels good but it’s isolated pleasure, isolated from the man, from himself, from Steve, with their only contact Steve’s mouth on his cock, and he thought he was okay, but maybe he was wrong. 

And Steve reaches his left arm up Bucky’s side and splays his fingers across Bucky’s ribs. He has the presence of mind to maintain connection. Bucky grabs for his arm, hoping his grip speaks for him. Thank you. Please stay. Please don’t stop. He’s anchored. And Steve doesn’t stop.

And now his heart is racing because Steve is rolling his tongue over the head of his cock, sucking him down, pulling back and rolling his tongue again, and _Jesus fuck_ that is _it_. Somebody taught him. Bucky has had a partner’s first blowjob and this is _not_. It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, so he was wrong about Steve’s level of experience, it doesn’t matter, he’s reaping the benefits. And Steve’s hips roll down into the bed, the springs grind under him, he’s getting off on this too and that’s only fair. 

A spiral centered on Steve’s mouth turns and tightens and Bucky’s mouth leaves his conscious control. He rains words down on Steve, cussing in languages Steve doesn’t speak but it gets the point across. When the spiral closes down he says, “I love you,” and Steve digs his fingers into Bucky’s ribs, the only answer he can give with his mouth full but he heard. He knows. And he holds Bucky pulsing in his mouth as his legs quiver and the sheets tear until the spiral unwinds and with it Bucky’s limbs.

He pants at the ceiling and Steve climbs to his knees and runs his hands over Bucky’s thighs.

“God I love you,” Steve says.

Bucky lifts his head and Steve smiles up at him. Proud son of a bitch, smiling cocky with swollen red lips that look _exactly_ like what they’ve just done. His smile spreads onto Bucky’s face too.

“Good,” Bucky says. “That’s, um. That’s good. This would, uh. This would be kinda unbalanced, otherwise.”

Bucky extracts his metal fingers from the holes they’d sheared in the sheets. Of course. There was no way the fabric would hold up. Ah well. Maybe they’ll have use for the sheets on the other bed after all.

“Might have a hard time explaining that to SHIELD,” Steve saying, pointing out the destruction he wrought.

“Difficult,” Bucky says. “The word you want there is ‘difficult.’ Although yes, I would probably have a ‘hard time’ remembering that.”

Drawing the quotation marks in the air whirs in his left hand. It’s such a stupid thing to do with such a vicious machine, and Steve laughs. He sees it too. Couple of the most dangerous people in the world kept in one of its most secure facilities. Couple of smitten teenagers laughing about their erections. Jesus Christ.

“Thank you?” Steve says.

“Yes,” Bucky says. “No, thank _you_.”

“You’re alright then?”

“Yeah, you’re… That was… Yeah. Yeah, I’m… I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Steve says.

Steve moves over him all at once to straddle his hips and lay out full length on top of him and kiss him, immediately replacing the sun. Bucky can taste himself on Steve’s tongue and just the truth of that is enough to make it wonderful. It happened. _It keeps happening_. Every part, unedited by dreaming. Steve is heavy and he tastes like both of them together and he plasters sweat between them and Bucky is _already awake_ for it.

His arms rise around Steve’s back and his hands marvel at the unfamiliar size plated over the familiar gold, this body covering him where it would’ve barely slipped between his shoulders before. But he can open his eyes and see Steve’s face when he kisses him and still know. He can’t pick Steve up with one arm and toss him over anymore, it’d take an effort even with machinery involved if he wanted to get this behemoth off of him, but he never would’ve wanted to before and sure as shit doesn’t want to now. So there’s more of him to touch. So what. He’s here.

Steve’s having a ‘hard time,’ no surprise there. His erection digs into Bucky’s stomach. And this time Bucky has his hands. Or the one anyway, the one he doesn’t have to worry about accidentally hurting Steve any more than fingernails can do. He leaves his left still around Steve’s back and drops the right to Steve’s hip, urging him down and encouraging his rhythm.

Steve growls and thrusts down and reaches one hand up under Bucky’s jaw to take over their kiss. Steve’s tongue slides into his mouth at the tempo of his cock against Bucky’s stomach and that’s fun but it isn’t enough. Bucky shoves his hand between them to wrap around and hold that hardness and Steve moans and bucks into his grip.

The fingers at his jaw clamp down, clawed into the bone. The heel of Steve’s hand presses into his throat and his pulse bounces back to him amplified. His body and his mind conflict on the issue. His heart and his lungs scream at him to be afraid when he notices it’s a little more difficult to breathe, that blood has a little bit of a harder time circulating through his neck, that Steve could cause him damage if he truly lost control. Captain America choked the Winter Soldier out, on the helicarrier. Steve’s hand could wrench his joint apart. He won’t. But he could.

But he won’t.

 _But he could_.

But Bucky’s mind wins out. Because Steve is going _nuts_ , positively snarling at the sounds Bucky makes and rocking fast in his hand. He’s elated by Steve’s appetite for him, enough to remind himself that he can hardly qualify this as pain. So he might have Steve’s fingerprints bruised into his skin. That’s appropriate. That’s _exciting_. That’s worth it.

The sounds leaving his mouth could be fear, could be but aren’t, they sound so much the same, but they aren’t so he tries to say “Yes” so Steve can hear. It comes out in pieces so he repeats it, and repeats it, “Yes yes yes.” He said, he knows, he said, he told Steve he can hurt him if he wants to, and this is _exactly_ what he meant. 

Steve lifts himself up on the hand at Bucky’s jaw, leaning weight onto it and limiting his breath further and that takes his focus, denies him speech and denies him access to his hand, leaving it limp around Steve’s cock. He can still breathe but not well. He can do this for a minute but not much longer and Steve better finish off or change it up. 

And Steve chooses finishing off. He still has his other hand and he takes over stroking himself and he was close enough already. And he’s doing it watching Bucky’s face. Bucky struggles for breath and against the impulse to close his eyes and deny Steve. Steve’s eyes are ice on fire and he grunts through gritted teeth and Bucky’s ever vigilant radar for violence pings _loudly_ and alerts only surrender. Maybe Steve wasn’t so far off on that penance thing. Whether this is lust or rage or both Bucky is gonna let Steve take it out on him. If the first then he’s grateful. If the second then he deserves it. And the choice is not his.

Every line of tension stands out straight in Steve’s skin and he curls over his own hand and roars when he comes on Bucky’s chest. And Bucky fixes the moment in the upper levels of his mind, to remember. If his penance is paid and this is the last time he _has_ to be able to take it with him. Steve’s wide open mouth and the sounds he makes, the sharp pain in his jaw and the hot splash on his skin. Everything. It’s _his_. And he’s keeping it.

Steve drops his hands to the bed on either side of Bucky’s head and Bucky gasps in breath when the pressure is released. Steve’s head hangs and Bucky can see the upper edges of his face but can’t catch his eyes, can’t check in, can’t read him. Steve blinks, and swallows, and retrieves the towel still on the floor from the night before. He wipes off the latest mess, and keeps his eyes down, and _that_ is almost frightening. 

“Buck, I’m…” Steve starts.

“Do not say you’re sorry,” Bucky interrupts.

He pulls the towel out of Steve’s hand and drops it on the floor so Steve’s hand is empty and Bucky can take it. He twines their fingers together, his right hand and Steve’s, crossed between them. Steve doesn’t resist.

“Don’t say you’re sorry unless you really are,” Bucky says. “Don’t say it for me.”

Then Steve meets his eyes. The fire has melted the ice into wide puddles of blatant shock. He blinks slowly and a weak smile attempts to move in.

“I’m not,” Steve says. 

And his voice is so light. He’s thrilled, and baffled. Bucky breathes easier. He’d been afraid for nothing.

“Good,” Bucky says. “Neither am I.”

Bucky rolls his jaw, exploring the damage, and Steve’s brow creases. Stop him before he apologizes again.

“I’m fine,” Bucky says. “Could’ve told you to stop if I wanted to.”

“I would’ve stopped if you said,” Steve says. Not so light. That’s a firm tone. He wants Bucky to believe it.

“I know,” Bucky says. He does believe it. Steve can be trusted. He’ll stop if he hears “Stop.” And that just makes it easier for Bucky not to say it.

“I didn’t want you to,” Bucky says. And he raises an eyebrow and turns Steve’s words back on him. “Do you believe me?”

Steve tilts his head to one side in a concession. “You certainly seem sincere,” he says. “But you may have noticed I have a way of bowling people over.”

Bucky splays his arms and legs out on the bed and stretches under him, doing a good impression of someone thoroughly bowled over. 

“Heaven forbid!”

Steve grins and sags down to prop his chin on crossed arms on Bucky’s chest, laying into comfort. It’s a holding pattern they’d never had before, leaving room for propriety even in their quietest conversations. _God_ it’s so much better to give that up.

“Pretty sure I’m gonna have some impressive bruises here,” Bucky says. “Might have a hard time explaining that to SHIELD.”

Steve chuckles and shakes his head. “They’d think we were fighting.”

Bucky smiles. He’s not wrong. 

“Close enough,” Bucky says.

Steve rolls his eyes and gives him a soft but admonishing shove on the arm.

“You know what…” Steve says.

“What? You gonna tell me that has nothing to do with it?”

“Not… nothing…”

Ah ha. Struck a nerve with that one. Steve can’t actually say it. Can’t actually say whether or not he’s trying to even the score. Hurt Bucky because the Winter Soldier hurt him.

For a moment, anyway. Steve trails his fingers along the structure of Bucky’s chest, soft and exploratory.

“When we fought before…” Steve says, “Well, I know you can take a punch. Not saying I want to punch you or anything,” he says quickly, “but you’re not… Most people, for me, they’re made of tissue paper. I have to be so careful, but with you… You’re not. That’s all it is.”

Alright, that’s fair. Bucky nods. 

“I’m not trying to punish you if that’s what you think,” Steve says.

So, maybe not. Probably not.

Make it funny. Make it a joke. Make it light, that’s his job. Steve falls into darkness too easily.

“You’re doing a piss poor job if you are,” Bucky says. “I haven’t learned my lesson at all.”

He deploys the weaponized smile through his eyelashes. And Steve colors and licks his lips and grins. Much better.

“Well you know how we used to tussle when we were kids, kicking each other around,” Steve says. “I remember a few pretty good knocks on the head from your mom’s coffee table.”

“Yeah, and I remember trying to keep my legs together the whole time so you wouldn’t knee me in a pretty solid erection.”

“The hell you say?”

Bucky throws his hands up.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, you still think I fell in love with Captain America?”

Steve doesn’t have a response to that. Except a sad smile and a slow kiss. It’s a point of contention with him, surely. Hard to believe he’d been loved before, been loved always. But Steve sure as hell didn’t fall in love with the Winter Soldier. He’s gotta know. The only thing new is the privacy. And the strength. Of body, but not of feeling.

Steve rests his forehead on Bucky’s and strokes gently along his jaw, revisiting the marks he’d left.

“I’m being pretty selfish here too you know,” Steve says.

“I’d gathered that,” Bucky says, and theatrically stretches the joint Steve threatened to make him scoff.

“Well I never got to pin you down on the couch cushions at home,” Steve says. “You always won.”

“Had to make it look good. You’d’ve been suspicious if I let you win.”

“You letting me win now?”

No. Don’t have to. But it’s not as though he’s fighting back particularly hard.

“It’s different now,” Bucky says. “You make it fun to lose.”

Steve chuckles and shuffles down to lay his head on Bucky’s chest, and curl his arms at his sides, and lets the matter drop. Bucky wraps his arms around Steve’s shoulders, and it’s a wonderful thing, picking up on the calm in afterglow from a satisfied partner, but he’s not glad it’s over, now that he knows. Lust, not rage. Happiness, not regret. The rush of power subsiding leaves a tingling void, itching to be filled again. 

And it’s good. They’re still playing. That’s good. They’re just taking a natural evolution of their little wrestling matches, just a little rough, just a little more context. It only looks like fighting. 

Probably. Mostly. 

But Steve’s weight is an insistent pressure on his organs he can’t ignore.

“Let me up,” Bucky says.

“Don’t want to,” Steve says.

“Cope,” Bucky says. “Gotta hit the head.”

Steve grumbles but he rolls off. Bucky sits up and shakes himself once to settle his limbs and relocate his feet and the ability to stand. Steve watches him walk naked across the room murmuring appreciatively and Bucky has to stop himself from looking back. These eyes on his back aren’t a threat. These eyes on his back are probably locked on his ass. Hope Steve enjoys the show.

He relieves himself and kicks the pants on the floor out of the way of the sink and the mirror to shave and tidy his hair while he’s here. The bathroom’s bigger and Steve’s bigger but the mess is still the same. Took Bucky’s reminding to get laundry done, every time. Steve never even seemed to see it. Second verse, same as the first. He gathers the clothes into a pile and notes it for later. Investigate the laundry facilities.

He shaves carefully around the soreness in his jaw. And yeah, he wasn’t exaggerating, that’s gonna leave a mark. Maybe not for long but the red is going to turn blue. The shape of Steve’s hand on his face. Brilliant.

Steve isn’t in the bed when Bucky comes out, but he can hear him in the kitchen. He gets into clean clothes from the duffle and follows the sound. The coffee maker gurgles on the counter and Steve is padding around in nothing but shorts, pulling breakfast out of the fridge, as comfortable as anything. The glassed lines on Steve’s chest are already starting to fade, just a tender pink now, lucky son of a bitch. But he’s still easy on his right leg when he walks. Bucky winces in sympathy. A blow from his left arm isn’t enough to stop Steve but it still hurts like hell.

“How’s your knee?” Bucky asks.

“I’m alright,” Steve says. “Don’t worry about it.”

Some orders can’t be followed. He’s gonna worry about it. But he nods anyway. 

Steve stands from the fridge and sets the eggs on the counter and reaches his arms up over his head in a great yawning morning stretch. Bucky finds his hands drawn toward Steve’s exposed waist, and he suspects the draw on instinct. He quickly interrogates it, demanding its origin, expecting again to find the old directives to combat seeing Captain America in a vulnerable position. 

But the inclination is benign, rooted in the palms of his hands wanting only to touch. And he allows the casual gesture. New habits are taking root and driving out the old ones, and he slides his hands around Steve’s waist, the left over the right to keep the metal away from Steve’s skin. He stands behind him to nestle his face in the curve of Steve’s neck.

And if anyone asks, gun to his head, what’s his favorite part, it’s this. Being able to touch Steve just because he wants to.

“Expected you to still be in bed,” Bucky says.

“The day is young,” Steve says. “I can always go back.”

There’s a thought. Hyra’s experiments hadn’t had a noticeable effect on Bucky’s sexual response for good or ill, saints be praised, but Steve is the original Super Soldier. No idea what Erskine’s serum might have done to his refractory period. Maybe he only needs a minute.

Hm. Something else to investigate later.

“Maybe breakfast first,” Bucky says. “Since we’re up.”

Steve cranes his head over his shoulder to kiss the side of Bucky’s face.

“Sit down. Let me fix it.”

Bucky unwinds his arms and raises an admonishing finger.

“You get one chance, Rogers. But if your eggs are as rubbery as I remember them I’m taking over.”

“Jerk,” Steve chuckles.

“But you love me,” Bucky says. To make Steve say it.

“Both things can be true,” Steve says. 

Then Steve smiles and says it anyway. 

“I love you.”

Bucky wraps his right hand behind Steve’s neck to pull him in and kiss him. Maybe it’s not so surprising that the first time they said it went by without either of them noticing, sitting on the floor of SHIELD’s containment pod talking about tacos of all things. It sounds just like “Good morning,” just like, “I’m here,” just like his name. He’s glad of the lack of ceremony. Though he can’t deny that his heart skips a little, hearing it.

“I love you,” Bucky says.

And saying it. He _can_ now. He’s known it as long as he can remember, remembered it first after the winter. But _saying_ it… Certainly wasn’t SHIELD’s plan for the silence the organization had given the super soldiers, but they’ll take it.

Bucky sits at the table to wait. He pulls the Dickinson back off the shelf and flips it open. Any page is a good one. He’d gotten high marks in school, writing about her. She makes sense.

_My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -_  
_In Corners - till a Day_  
_The Owner passed - identified -_  
_And carried Me away -_

The kitchen sizzles and smells like bacon. There’s nothing else in the world smells like that. Bucky’s mouth waters automatically. It’s hard to screw up bacon. Breakfast is promising.

Though frying bacon without a shirt on is taking your life in your own hands. Steve does not always make good choices.

_And now We roam in Sovereign Woods -_  
_And now We hunt the Doe -_  
_And every time I speak for Him_  
_The Mountains straight reply -_

Steve fills a mug when the coffee is done and sets another next to Bucky on the table, empty. 

“I’m not fixing coffee for you,” Steve says. “Might as well pour it over a donut and call it good.”

Bucky perks up from his book.

“We got donuts?” he says.

“No.”

Bucky tsks at Steve and picks up the mug.

“Don’t tease me like that.”

Bucky dodges around Steve in the kitchen to fix his own coffee. And can’t help watching the power of Steve’s body in limited application to stirring eggs. It’s like using an industrial robot to thread a needle. Steve learned to move when there was a lot less of him to get around and hasn’t lost the precision, hadn’t turned into a lumbering hulk in the meantime. Gods alive he moves like a dancer and it’s not fucking fair. He’d never even been able to dance.

Bucky retrieves the book at the table and juggles it with the coffee. It’s difficult to turn pages with his left hand, the steel doesn’t have much traction. But he manages.

_And do I smile, such cordial light_  
_Opon the Valley glow -_  
_It is as a Vesuvian face_  
_Had let it’s pleasure through -_

Steve fixes plates and brings them to the table with forks. The plates bear strips of bacon, which he expected, and, if you can believe it, omelettes. Folded fucking omelettes. There’s nothing in them but there doesn’t have to be. Just getting the eggs right is a pain.

“Show off,” Bucky says.

“Eat,” Steve says. But he’s smiling when he says it. He’s won a little victory. He can swagger about it a bit.

Bucky almost hopes the eggs aren’t light and fluffy but God dammit they are. And he cooked them in the bacon grease. Smart man.

“Damn. Somebody finally taught you to cook eggs.”

Steve shrugs. “Wanda. She likes to cook. And doesn’t like to let other people cook badly.”

“This the same Wanda?” Bucky says. “The psychic?”

“Yeah.”

“And she cooks too. Wow.”

“She is a woman of many talents,” Steve says.

There’s a vagueness in his tone but not enough information to pinpoint the source. Bucky curses himself for the winding jealousy in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t even know if it’s deserved. But there’s no way Steve has been alone this whole time. No way. And she’s supposed to be coming _here_.

“So she cooks for you?” Bucky says.

“She cooks for everybody when she feels like it.”

Everybody means the Avengers. And now he’s imagining the world’s mightiest breakfast towering over the city of New York.

“Do they know why you’re here?” Bucky asks.

“No. I just said I had something to take care of.”

“Right.”

That is a conversational cul de sac and ends in silent food consumption for a moment. But it’s got alleyways that converge and Bucky clears his throat to start walking down one of them.

“If Wanda’s coming here… you gonna tell her?” Bucky asks. “About us?”

“Wasn’t really planning on it.”

Bucky nods. He shouldn’t be surprised. There had always been plenty that Steve kept under his bed. The things he wanted to be private, even from Bucky. It still hurts a little. But if he’s going to be something Steve keeps under his bed at least he’ll be close.

Although… Anyone seeing anything of Bucky’s thoughts recently would see Steve written all over them. 

“If she’s gonna be reading my mind I think she’ll know.”

Steve freezes for a moment and his eyes unfocus into the middle distance over Bucky’s shoulder. He hadn’t thought of that. He’s pondering the implications. Bucky can practically see the headlines written behind his eyes. It’s not like they’d go to jail for it now. Plenty more they’d be in jail for but that’s beside the point. You don’t get locked up for being a queer anymore. 

You just have to reset your reputation in the eyes of the American public. Steve’s bread and butter. Still a problem. Bucky is a P.R. nightmare.

Steve blinks and his eyes refocus on Bucky.

“I’m not worried about it,” Steve says. “Wanda won’t go wandering around in someone’s mind without permission. And even if she finds out it’s not like she’s gonna go on the news with it.”

“Fair enough,” Bucky says. “So… you trust her?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“She’s… a friend?”

Steve sighs.

“Yeah, Buck, she’s a friend.”

Fine. Fuck it. Just ask.

“So you got anybody special waiting for you at home?”

“No,” Steve says. “I’d like to think I would’ve told you if I did.”

Bucky would like to think that too. But lies are the order of the universe. And Steve’s one to talk. “Something to take care of.” Not “My brainwashed assassin best friend back from the dead.”

“Oh who knows with you,” Bucky says to make a joke out of it. No big deal, don’t worry about it, you can lie if you want.

Steve’s fork hangs over his plate and he looks pointedly at Bucky.

“Cut it out.”

The joke collapses. Bucky can tease him about overcooking eggs but impugning his character is a step too far. That’s fair. Noted.

“Sorry,” Bucky says.

“Yeah.”

They finish the meal in silence. Nothing else to say until they’re finished. Then he can say, “I got the dishes.” And try for lightness again. “Go put a fucking shirt on.”

“As if you mind,” Steve says.

“Have some decency, Rogers.”

Steve scoffs, but he stands from the table, and leaves his dishes, and trails his fingers across the back of Bucky’s shoulders on his way past. He must be forgiven for the insult, if Steve’s still touching him. That’s alright, then. Just don’t do it again.

Two people’s worth of breakfast dishes takes all of a minute to wash up. And when they’re put away, there’s… nothing… else… to do. He supposes a rational person would be grateful. On the beach he’d broken camp and walked every day with the little tent and a handful of small stolen possessions strapped to his back. Staying in one place too long was dangerous. In the Retreat he dries his hands and hangs the towel on the handle of the stove, and almost misses it. 

He’d be moving already, by this time of the morning. Cover a couple of miles of the coastline, sticking to the trees when there were trees and at least staying away from the roads when there weren’t. It wasn’t peaceful, with his eyes peeled for any moving thing to turn out to be pursuit, but it was activity anyway. Steve rustles around in the bedroom and the sealed cabin doesn’t let sound in from the outside. The small space is smaller in silence, and even if it isn’t unpleasant it isn’t particularly endearing either.

But their apartment at home had been smaller than this. And just as sweltering in the summer with the cheap walls thrumming with the heat. What’s different? What’s missing?

Music.

“Don’t suppose we’ve got a radio,” Bucky says when Steve comes back, as dressed as he ever is.

“Kind of.”

Steve taps a control on the wall and a panel slides away, revealing a screen that lights to a menu of icons. He selects one and then another from the next menu and another from the next until slow jazz plays through the cabin. Bucky tracks the sound and can’t see the origin points, speakers hidden in the walls like the screen had been. Somehow a phonograph seems simpler.

“Does television too, if you want,” Steve says.

No. The jazz is perfect. They could always agree on jazz, hardly had to argue about what to put on to give soundtrack to their old lives. Their phonograph records were prized possessions and handled ever so carefully so they wouldn’t lose the music. 

“No, this is fine,” Bucky says.

The menu on the screen shows so, so much more music, so many more albums than they could’ve dreamed fitting into the milk crates on the floor. Some names he recognizes. Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, bless the Lord their genius has survived. And some he doesn’t. He doesn’t know the song playing now, but it’s connected. Jazz has continued. Not all bad, this future.

And in the bottom right hand corner of the screen, there’s a clock! Wonder of wonders. He’s got an hour or so until he’s due to debrief. Spent more time in bed with Steve than he’d thought. Ah well, time flies when you’re having fun.

Steve collapses into a chair with his sketchbook and flips to a blank page. And that’s so much like home all Bucky can do is pick the book and his coffee mug up off of the table to join him. Where to sit. Could take up the whole couch. There’s another chair. 

But there’s space between Steve’s knees and the coffee table that Bucky could take up and that’s more appealing. He can be in Steve’s orbit, until he has to suffer the wrath of agent May again.

Bucky sets his coffee on the table and sits on the floor in front of Steve. He leans back against the chair and brings his knees to his chest, props the book up in his left hand and finds his page.

_And when at Night - Our good Day done -_  
_I guard My Master’s Head -_  
_’Tis better than the Eider Duck’s_  
_Deep Pillow - to have shared -_

“I know what I said about the couch but the chairs really are comfortable,” Steve says.

“Yeah. I’d just rather sit here.”

Steve runs the hand holding the pencil down the back of Bucky’s head through his hair. 

“Alright.”

_To foe of His - I’m deadly foe -_  
_None stir the second time -_  
_On whom I lay a Yellow Eye -_  
_Or an emphatic Thumb -_

Trumpets blend into trumpets, songs into songs. Poetry blends into poetry. Clouds dapple the sunlight streaming onto the floor and move away. The coffee mug drains. Steve’s pencil scratches on the page behind his ear. Bucky hopes Steve isn’t drawing him. Or maybe hopes that he is.

His arm buzzes when he moves to turn a page. Steve’s leg shifts away.

“Sorry,” Bucky says. “God knows it’s weird.”

“It’s alright,” Steve says. And his leg shifts back.

_Though I than He - may longer live_  
_He longer must - than I -_  
_For I have but the power to kill,_  
_Without - the power to die -_

The scratching stops. Steve closes his sketchbook and leans forward, holding both hands out toward Bucky’s left arm.

“Hey, Buck? Can I just…?”

Steve can’t finish. But he doesn’t have to. They’re practically home, safe and normal, but for the couple of things. Can he just touch, to normalize that too? Yes. Of course.

Bucky nods. “Yeah. Hang on.”

He sets the book aside and rucks his sleeve up over his left shoulder, and sets his arm arm out on Steve’s knees, relaxed and deactivated. Steve takes a deep breath and lays his hands on the machinery, daring himself to be afraid and taking the dare. 

Steve’s eyes skitter between his own hands, connecting sight with feel, and Bucky’s face. Bucky doesn’t watch his hands. Steve’s eyes are more important. Is he afraid? Is he hesitating? Will he balk if Bucky moves? Bucky doesn’t try it. Not worth it.

“Can I ask…” Steve says carefully. “You don’t have to answer.”

Steve taps his arm with one finger, tinging his nail on the metal. “What does it feel like?”

“Um…” 

Bucky doesn’t mind answering, not to Steve. But how to explain the gulf between sense and data? Feels like being told what’s happening instead of feeling it. Does that make sense? Not enough. Feels like remembering something that already happened. Does that make sense? Not enough.

Oh. That’ll work. Close enough.

“You remember breaking your arm and having it in a cast?” Bucky says.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Do you?”

Bucky already told him. He remembers. But it’s fine. Steve needs to hear it, it’s fine. It’ll sink in eventually.

“I ought to,” Bucky says. “I did the same stupid thing six months later.”

And Steve smiles.

“Your fault waiting six months,” Steve says. “The roof didn’t have ice on it when I jumped.”

He’s gotten confirmation. And fallen back into the rhythm of teasing. Good. That was easy.

“I would’ve made it across that alley if I hadn’t slipped,” Bucky says.

“Bullshit. You were just trying to impress the neighbor kids.”

“And what were you doing?”

“Making my mother cry.”

Bucky laughs. Oh how Steve’s mother hated him! But she’d got it all wrong! They never could convince her. It wasn’t Bucky getting Steve in trouble. It was the other way around! She could never see the little shit starter lurking under that pretty blond boy, may she rest in peace. Steve said, “Betcha I can make that jump,” and what else was Bucky going to say but, “Betcha you can’t!”

“God, our mothers tried to keep us apart for a month with that one,” Bucky says.

“Didn’t work.”

“Never did.”

Never in all their tries. Never after any of their fights and follies, each mother telling the other brother “He’s a bad influence on you.” And tell you what, if Sarah Rogers couldn’t keep them apart, the governments of the world don’t stand a chance.

“What was I talking about?” Bucky says.

“Your arm.”

Right.

“Right. Cuz it feels sort of like having it in a cast. Like whatever it is that can feel is under a lot of other stuff.”

Steve nods. He touches every plate from Bucky’s shoulder to his wrist like he’s counting them and noting the shape of each one, like he’s going to be quizzed on it later. He gives Bucky’s arm the same minute inspection that Fitz had but his expression is nothing like the little calculating scientist. Steve is thorough for reasons not concerning the device itself but the man connected to it. 

And he’s used to it, used to being manipulated and inspected, but not used to concern. To care. Bucky doesn’t have the excuse that Steve is distracted by sex this time, isn’t putting up with it because he’s so turned on he can’t begin to care. They’re fully clothed and silent, and Steve is still trying to make this okay.

“Does it hurt?” Steve says.

Yes. Wasn’t planning on telling Steve that, though. He doesn’t need to know. He doesn’t need to worry. But he asked. Can’t lie to him.

“Like a charlie horse that won’t go away,” Bucky says. “But I don’t really notice it anymore.” Only slightly a lie.

“Oh,” Steve says. 

Sadness colors the curiosity on his face and anger heats in Bucky’s chest. Swear to God if Steve is going to start heaping pity on him…

But Steve strokes the tips of his fingers across Bucky’s wrist, light and testing. 

“So… You can’t feel that?”

“Not really,” Bucky says. No sense lying about it. He can see Steve’s fingers move and he can guess but the sensors are only giving him hints, maybe and maybe not.

Steve presses in more firmly and moves the tips of his fingers slowly, and that registers. Pressure but not texture, movement but not warmth. He’s learning.

“I can feel that,” Bucky says. 

Bucky lays his right hand over Steve’s flat on his arm and holds it still so the metal can warm and the sensors register and Steve understands. 

Steve wraps his hands around Bucky’s wrist and lifts that hand to his face, staring close at the fingers. He turns the hand around to look at the palm, holding it scant inches from his face. Bucky’s fingertips hover in front of Steve’s eyes and Bucky stops breathing. He could blind Steve in an instant, one twitch and the result would be orders of magnitude beyond scars. But he has control. His hand is still. 

And Steve smiles.

“It’s beautiful,” Steve says.

Bucky’s stomach turns. What the _hell_ is wrong with that man?

“It’s not beautiful. It’s awful.”

“Come on, Buck,” Steve says. “Here.”

Steve holds Bucky’s hand out into the sunlight and turns it around. He winds his fingers between Bucky’s and flexes them apart. 

“Look,” Steve says. “Just look at how the light glints off the edges and how the anodizing shines. Look at the tiny plates on your fingers. They sparkle, Buck. It is beautiful.”

Sparkle? Fucking artists, Jesus.

But for just a second, Bucky can see it. The dark steel looks like midnight water and the plates are waves glinting in the moon. In the reflected light in Steve’s eyes, he can see it. It’s quickly tainted by memory, but Steve isn’t seeing the blood between the plates. And for just long enough, Bucky doesn’t either.

“If you say so,” Bucky says.

Bucky sees the curve of Steve’s cheek, imagines the fit of curvature in his palm if he just tilts his wrist, and he gives in to the desire before he knows he has. He wants to cool the flush on Steve’s cheek and prove that he’s not going to hurt him, not if he has a damn thing to say about it. 

Steve sucks in a breath when Bucky’s hand connects and Bucky tells himself it’s just because it’s cold because Steve doesn’t pull away.

“Maybe you’ll let me draw it some time,” Steve says.

Bucky shakes his head and drops his hand, point made and taken. His palm is a little warmer and his heart a lot more so.

“I can’t stop you,” Bucky says.

“Yes you can,” Steve says.

Steve leans over the arm on his lap, covering the sensors completely and giving Bucky plenty of warm and firm data, to bring his face down and kiss him. No, Bucky can’t stop him. Can’t stop anything Steve wants from him. Not now. Not ever.

And that kiss has harmonics to it, a slow progression that leads to open mouths and sliding tongues and it’s hard to do, twisted around with his back still in the chair, but _God_ he doesn’t want it to stop. Has to, just for a second, so he can turn on the floor and rise to his knees, and Steve perches on the edge of the chair to get as close as he can. Steve’s thighs bracket Bucky’s ribs and his hands link behind Bucky’s neck to draw him back in. His sketchbook smacks down on the floor and the pencil rolls away under the couch.

Bucky allows both of his hands exploration of Steve while he kisses him, fingers at the muscles of his arms and palms his chest, comparing between the sense and the data and recording both, accepting both. Steve drops one hand from his neck to dip under the elastic at the back of Bucky’s sweats, and he groans.

“You are incorrigible,” Bucky says.

“Can you blame me?”

Nah, not really. Spent long enough waiting. Don’t know how long they’re going to have this safety. Nah, can’t blame him. But could no sooner stop picking at him than stop kissing him, now.

His erection is jammed into the chair, not where he’d like to stay, though he can imagine having fun with Steve in this chair. Steve wouldn’t even have to get out of it. Bucky could just drop his head and have his face in Steve’s lap and hey, that’s not a bad idea.

He sits back on his heels and noses into Steve’s thigh. Steve’s straining his zipper alongside his face, and he just brushes his cheek along the bulge to make Steve sigh and lean back in the chair to give him better access. He flicks open the button of Steve’s pants and eases his zipper down, and Steve’s hands wrap into his hair. So Steve likes doing that while Bucky is going down on him. Good to know. He could get used to that.

An electronic chime sounds from behind him. One of the attention grabbing sort they set as cell phone ringtones, that slices through any atmosphere and leaves it in ribbons.

Bucky groans and looks up at the clock on the screen. Thirteen hundred. Debrief with agent May. Fuck!

Steve rights his zipper and pecks Bucky on the cheek. “Go to it,” Steve says.

“Aye, captain,” Bucky says.

“I’ll be here after,” Steve says.

Good Lord willing. If he’s polite enough not to listen in. He knows, but he doesn’t have to listen. SHIELD wants information Steve doesn’t have to hear.

Bucky stands and adjusts the lay of the sweats to walk until his erection subsides. God. Dammit. Gotta pay for the limited peace.

The chiming computer terminal is at a desk in the other bedroom, the one they’re not using. That’s nice. He won’t have conflicting memories of the space, won’t have to reconcile joy and violence within the same walls. He shuts the door and touches the screen and the face of agent May appears.

Presumably. She’s almost unrecognizable, and it takes Bucky a moment to realize why. She’s not scowling. Just poised and relaxed. Probably helps that she’s only seeing him through a screen. He’s not a physical threat.

“Good afternoon,” May says.

It’s a calculated look she’s wearing, one he’s seen on interrogators before. Don’t worry, it says, you’re not in trouble, I’m not angry at you, you can talk to me. It doesn’t look comfortable on her. There’s a crease on her forehead like she’d dropped the scowl just seconds before turning on her monitor and it hasn’t smoothed out yet. Maybe she wasn’t SHIELD’s best choice for this.

“Right,” Bucky says, and sits down.

May’s arms are crossed on the desk in front of her, and there is only a blank white wall behind her. She could be anywhere. Smart. And it occurs to Bucky that what’s behind him is an unused bedroom with a tightly made bed and an open duffle bag. That’s not too indicative, is it? May knows he’s a soldier, she can infer they make their beds in the mornings, can’t she? They haven’t, but she doesn’t know that.

Ah well. Too late now.

“I want you to know this isn’t recording right now,” May says.

Bucky tilts the chair back and props his feet up on the desk, taking the other role of the drama. I’m not taking you seriously, you don’t intimidate me, I won’t talk to you if I don’t want to. It’s not necessary, he’s paying his rent here, but it doesn’t do to make things too easy on the other guy.

“This is the part where we build rapport so I’ll be willing to talk to you, right?”

May opens her arms on the desk and lays her hands down flat. 

“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” May says.

“Considering you shot me,” Bucky says. It wasn’t _just_ her on the beach, but the point still stands. 

“I’m sorry we thought that was necessary,” May says.

Parse that sentence. She’s not sorry for shooting him, because she thought it was necessary, and soldiers will do what is necessary. But she’s disappointed with SHIELD for the lack of intel that made her think she had to. Apologizing for their failure. And she sounds genuine. Huh.

“Understood.”

“I’ve talked to Daisy and Fitz-Simmons,” May says. “They told me about what happened in the lab. They told me you tried to protect them. That counts for a lot. With all of us.”

Fitz-Simmons. Seems like ages ago. But it was only yesterday.

May reads like the kind of terrible liar that Steve is. Not because they think it’s wrong but because the force of who they are always shows and they can’t keep it off their faces. She’s telling the truth. Fitz-Simmons bought him her sympathy. Bless their little cotton socks.

“Yeah those two are a couple of soft toys, aren’t they,” Bucky says.

May smirks.

“You’d be surprised. But I do care about them. And they made it sound like you do too.”

She’s angling for a connection. It may be planned but it’s true. She’s opened the door for him to confirm it by saying he does care about them when she already knows it’s true and he would have to lie to refuse the connection. Alright. She’s pretty good at this.

“It would be hard not to,” Bucky says.

“Very. So I want you to know this isn’t an interrogation.”

“And yet they assigned you?”

May glances down from the monitor. When she looks up, her expression has hardened to cover something. Sadness? Regret? Hm.

“I can handle hearing whatever you have to say,” May says. “The same can’t be said of the other members of our team. They know, but they don’t need to be exposed to the details.”

So he was right about her. But she’s like him. She’s their wall. The force, without a doubt, but the one who does what needs to be done so the soft ones can stay soft. 

SHIELD already knows him better than he thought they did. Steve’s been talking, or they are remarkably perceptive. He rights the chair and puts his feet on the floor.

“So where do you want me to start?” Bucky says.

“Wherever you can.”

Might as well start at the beginning. May taps a control on her monitor and a red light appears on his. Recording.

“Alright. March third, nineteen forty four. Steve led a raid on a Hydra train transporting Arnim Zola.”

He glosses over the fall. Wasn’t Steve’s fault. Don’t need to remember.

He tells May about the Hydra agents picking him up. Tells her about the surgeries and the injections, experiments with radiation that got close but hurt like blazes in the meantime. Red Skull didn’t remember exactly what was done to him and Zola wasn’t Erskine but they tried. At some point the decor of the base around him was different and the language switched from German to Russian but it didn’t change much.

There were arms that failed and had to be replaced. Injections that left him paralyzed and screaming with muscles torn apart from the inside. The cryo, at first just slowing instead of stopping, freezing him in a dream until the dreams died and left only the cold. Iterations of the chair that took years of his life and scrambled what was left, made him unable to speak or understand until they got it right and blanked out everything but what they put in. Programming that shoved memories aside and created new ones, learning languages and technical skills in a blast of electricity. Putting Bucky Barnes on ice and living as the Winter Soldier. Waiting.

And the training. Waking him up with nothing but an imperative to fight and pitting him against more and greater opponents. He killed more people in Hydra bases than he ever did outside of them. But they were little people. Soldiers and operatives who were disposable to Hydra, useful only in that they were making him fit to kill important targets. When it became clear that anyone they sent against him was a dead man they stopped. Decided he was ready.

But the time he had to wait before he remembered after the chair got shorter and shorter, and they had to redesign it more and more frequently to keep on top of it. At first it’d be days out and he’d be the same. Then he’d start remembering in hours and they had to reprogram. They rewrote the book when the triggers stopped working. Over and over. Though they took his triumphs from him, they couldn’t wipe away all they’d done. Because they’d screwed up. You make someone remember and forget and remember and forget, and eventually they get really good at remembering. 

They’d given him practice.

He gives May all the details he can recall. He only glanced at their schematics, didn’t understand them, but he can describe them. He didn’t know what the doctors were talking about over him when he was strapped to a table until they’d forced languages into his mind and by the time they’d figured that shit out they were almost finished. A few names remain in his memory, a few locations mentioned when people talked when they thought he couldn’t hear, and he passes them along.

May listens. She doesn’t ask for much clarification, asks “Where was the facility where you were taken?” to which he has to respond “I don’t know,” and asks how long he was kept there, which has the same response. But mostly she listens. 

By the expressions on her face he can tell he’s rewriting history for SHIELD. He mentions the name of a project printed at the top of a report and she sucks air through her teeth. She recognizes it. Didn’t know it was a Hydra front. He repeats an overheard name of one of the doctors and her eyes go wide. Betcha a million dollars that guy had a great reputation and he’s just destroyed it revealing his involvement in the Winter Soldier project. Shown the Hydra pin on his lapel.

And when he describes the procedures and the training May folds her hands and straightens her spine and withstands it all. He gets no pity from her and he’s grateful. She doesn’t expect him to comfort her through the pain of listening. Her fists clench and her nostrils flare and it’s the extent of feeling she shows him. If they get to meet in other circumstances May and Steve would get along like a house on fire.

He loses the thread of the remembrance, coming up on the first missions, after Hydra was confident enough in their work to send him out. Getting him that far took them years and getting that far in the story took hours of his time. The sun goes orange in the window. The chair is increasingly uncomfortable. The missions are another story for another day. 

And some distress must show on his face because May understands. She reaches out to her monitor and the red light in the corner winks out.

“That’s enough for today,” May says.

“Thank you.”

“I just have one question. Off the record.”

Oh alright. She’s earned it.

“Shoot.”

“Did they ever tell you why?”

Complicated question. Obviously Hydra started the project as a response to the Super Soldier. They wanted to have a weapon that could go up against Steve or his ilk if they ever needed to. 

But May knows that. As to why it had to be _him_? No idea. He was a good shot before but he wasn’t _that_ good. 

Maybe they wanted to hurt Steve. But they’d never said so. He feels like it’s giving them too much credit to think Hydra had been playing a long con, picking him up in Azzano and starting their experiments knowing who he was in relation to Steve and planning to send him out against him some day.

Probably just a stroke of luck. Probably.

“No,” Bucky says.

“I’m sorry,” May says.

Bucky smiles wryly. She’s earned some casual attitude from him, too.

“Ask Fitz-Simmons how I feel about apologies,” Bucky says.

And May returns the smile.

“Alright. Bucky… Thank you for trusting us with all this.”

“Thanks for the house. I owe you one.”

“Hardly. It was the right thing to do.”

It’s nice to know she thinks so. Scratch one potential enemy off the list. Good. That would not have been a fun fight.

“We’ll pick up tomorrow,” May says. “I’ll call at the same time.”

“Understood.”

May looks away from the camera. Her eyes narrow and open again, watching someone else. She takes a deep breath and sighs heavily, but makes a beckoning motion with one hand.

“Before you go,” she says, “Someone else wants to say hello.”

“Oh?”

Fitz-Simmons appear over her shoulders. May stands and walks away, shaking her head, and Simmons takes her chair. She gives a timid smile and wave and Bucky’s chest tightens. 

“Hallo, Bucky,” Simmons says. “How are you feeling?”

Her voice is a little tinny through the computer but still saccharine sweet. She clasps her hands in her lap and leans forward with the complete attentiveness that will actually listen to the answer to “How are you?” instead of expecting “Fine.” _God_ what he’d give to be able to call her Jemma.

Well let’s see, he thinks to respond. Woke up pretty damn well, had a good breakfast, almost got into round two with Steve, then had to remember a whole lot of shit I’d rather forget going back over the first of Hydra’s atrocities with a mildly sympathetic listener. How are you?

...he thinks, but does not say.

“Back to baseline,” Bucky says. Simmons gets the short reassuring answer regardless. She doesn’t need the whole truth. “Thanks. And hey, thanks for putting in a good word for me with agent May.”

“Oh all we had to do was tell the truth,” Simmons says. “We know that you didn’t intend for anything… For what happened yesterday, to… happen. We’re just glad you’re okay.”

Fitz leans down into the frame. “We wanted to let you know that we think we know what happened yesterday,” he says. “The use of your mechanical arm required small computer processors in the arm itself and in your brain that were tied into memory centers that…”

“But it would take too long to explain,” Simmons says, elbowing Fitz in the thigh. “What’s important is we mapped the connections between them and we can deactivate the link to memory…”

“We think…” Fitz says.

“We can,” Simmons says. “And we’ll be coming back with miss Maximoff tomorrow.”

Maximoff. Wanda. Right.

The two of them together are still frustrating to listen to. Jamming five minutes worth of speech into five seconds. Go back.

“You think?” Bucky says.

“The problem is that it’s all part and parcel and the functionality of your arm is tied to the same computer network that contained the triggers,” Fitz says before Simmons can stop him.

“So what?” Bucky says.

Simmons glances up at Fitz, but he’s not gonna give her an out. He’ll make her finish. They’ve been arguing. They’re not done arguing.

“It’s… possible…” Simmons says, “that breaking the connection between the processors and memory storage will have some… There may be repercussions in your nervous system, which…”

“Interference with the system may remove your ability to control that arm,” Fitz says.

Don’t care. Getting rid of the triggers is more important.

“Can you replace it?” Bucky asks.

Fitz clears his throat and smoothes his hair down. Oh boy… 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t make myself clear,” Fitz says. “It wouldn’t just be this particular piece of technology, it would be any connection to that part of your nervous system. You would essentially lose the ability to have a left arm.”

“ _If_ we’re wrong,” Simmons says. “And we’re not.”

“Well we were wrong yesterday…” Fitz says.

“But we’re not wrong now,” Simmons says.

It’s not as comforting as she means it to be. He’d live without two arms, plenty of soldiers have to. But if they can’t get all of Hydra’s shit out he’s still a danger. He’ll still be a danger to them, while they’re here. Poking around in shit that almost got them killed the first time around.

“And miss Maximoff has her own ideas, how to help,” Simmons says.

“But we’ll be there monitoring you,” Fitz says. “We’re still not sure how her abilities work.”

“No one really is,” Simmons says.

Mind control and technological interference. Simultaneously. Great. Maybe the one will cancel out the other? We’ll find out.

“Tomorrow?” Bucky says.

“Yes. Probably in the evening,” Fitz says. “If we’re back in time.”

“Oh we can have dinner together!” Simmons says. “If that’s alright with you two.”

God dammit. She’s fucking precious. Thank God for agent May. The one person whose image of him doesn’t have to be shattered because she already knows. Simmons can keep on giggling and smiling and pretending they’re just people, being sociable.

“Delightful,” Bucky says. “Bring beer.”

“I don’t know if we can…” Fitz starts.

“I think we might be able to manage something,” Simmons says, and smiles.

“So it’ll be just you two?” Bucky asks.

Wanda.

“You three?”

“Well Daisy and Mack will be with us,” Simmons says.

“That’s agent Mackenzie,” Fitz expands. “He’s Daisy’s partner. You didn’t get to meet him yesterday. Although from what we’ve heard of miss Maximoff we don’t think either of them would be necessary even if… ”

“Oh gosh Fitz,” Simmons says, and shoves him. “Don’t talk like that.”

It goes without saying. Bucky had heard about her in Hydra’s chatter. Her brother had been easy to explain - he was fast - but she was the strange one, the inexplicable one. They’d said something about her starting fires with her mind, something like that. She’s firepower at any rate. 

And SHIELD is bringing their own. Daisy alone can knock him flat. And whoever her partner is he must be able to keep up. For all May says about trusting Bucky, they’re not letting their guard down. 

But it’s comforting. If they’re going to be fucking with him again, they’ll be making sure he can’t hurt anyone. That’s alright, then. He won’t _want_ to fight. But if he doesn’t have a choice, he won’t get far.

“And I’m sorry but we’ve got to dash,” Simmons says. “Unfortunately you’re not the only project we’re working on at the moment. We’ll be seeing you soon.”

“And say goodnight to Captain Rogers as well,” Fitz says.

“Will do. ‘Night all.”

Simmons deactivates the monitor on her end, and they vanish. It’s a shame. But they’ll be back.

He hadn’t thought to turn on a light before he started in with May. The monitor and the sun had been the only sources of light, and with the one off and the other dimming the room is shrouded. Light leaks in around the frame of the door, presumably Steve is still active out there, but there’s been too much talking for a minute. Bucky leans back in the chair and covers his face with his hand.

Might be his last night with both arms. Might be his last night entirely, if they can’t help. The last time they tried… doesn’t bear thinking about.

But they can. They’re SHIELD’s best and SHIELD is the best. He knows that. He’s their fault, though they wouldn’t see it that way. SHIELD was the lattice on which Hydra grew. They trained the doctors who worked on him for years. 

_Never_ tell Simmons that. _Ever_.

God Simmons will be there again. Might have to watch, again… Watch the red light closing in and the person he is vanish into it and lose that much more faith that he’ll come back… 

Stop it.

They can help. They will. And Wanda will try. Because Steve asked her to.

He said she wouldn’t wander around in his mind without permission but what constitutes “permission” and how much danger overrides it? If Fitz presses the wrong button again and he’s gone what is she going to have to do? Will it be like the chair, clawing red tendrils ripping thoughts apart? What will he lose?

Stop it.

Sitting alone in the dark is not a good idea. Steve won’t make him talk if he doesn’t want to. Just… move. Move first. Think later.

He drifts out of the bedroom. Steve hasn’t moved from the chair, or moved and returned, who knows. But he’s still sitting there, and the music is still playing, and Steve tosses his hair out of his face to look up at Bucky, and that’s calm he doesn’t have right now.

He moves through the main room and rummages in the kitchen. Where was that Scotch… 

“How’d it go?” Steve asks.

There it is.

“I need a drink,” Bucky says, sloshing the bottle.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Behind the Cheerios,” Bucky says.

“That even do anything for you?” Steve asks.

Bucky pulls the cap off and tosses it into the trashcan. “It will if I drink enough of it. Here’s to my anonymous benefactor.”

He upends the bottle over his lips. It’s good shit. Burns in the best way going down. He’s gonna be spending a whole lot of somebody else’s money getting it to his brain.

“Stark, probably,” Steve says.

Bucky coughs. Stark. No. Can’t be. Stark is dead. His mind spins until he remembers. The son. Iron Man.

“Stark stayed here?” Bucky asks.

“He helped build all this. So yeah, he’s got kind of a season pass.”

Fuck.

Does he know? Does the Iron Man know about his parents? He can’t possibly. Bucky would’ve been found much more quickly with the resources of anyone named Stark after him. And would’ve been shot with something with more stopping power than tranquilizers. He’s seen that suit on the news. It’s got rocket launchers.

“Yeah…” Bucky says. “About Stark.”

“I know. I’ll talk to Tony.”

Tony. That’s his name.

He’s not the Iron Man to Steve. He’s Tony. Short for Anthony, not even his full name, a nickname. Steve is probably Steve to Tony too, not even Steven, not Captain America. Friends.

And Steve is here, with Bucky. Not with Tony, not with the Avengers. And they don’t even know why.

Bucky doesn’t want to be anywhere _near_ the conversation where Stark finds out.

“I’m gonna take this for a walk,” Bucky says, lifting the bottle and making for the door.

“Alright.”

He’s halfway down the gravel path before he realizes he left his shoes. Ah well. Chances of encountering broken glass are not high. He turns away from the trees. Avoid sticks, anyway. Just move.

The rolling grass around the cabin slopes and Bucky follows it downhill away from the mountains in the opposite direction he’d taken in his mad dash through the rain that first night. This section of his prison is still a mystery. The bottle drains as he walks. Even if Stark misses the whiskey the next time he’s here it’ll be the least of his problems with Bucky.

He’d known who they were. The senior Starks. He had to know or he wouldn’t have been able to plan the hit. The Winter Soldier just didn’t care. Certainly didn’t care about leaving a kid without his parents. 

He cares now. Somehow he doesn’t think that’s going to matter much to the Iron Man.

A sheer cliff slices down the hill, a hair’s breadth inside the forcefield, cordoned off with a visible constructed fence. It’s another SHIELD fakeout, shaped like wooden beams but rail straight and far too dense to be real wood. Long lasting. And it’s more symbolic barrier than true obstacle, hardly waist high, just enough to stop someone walking over the edge and tumbling into the ravine. He leans over it and watches the trickle of river far below.

The water mirrors the colors of the sunset in broken rushing beams. He looks down at his arm, cutting the same colors through the air. Fuck it, Fitz-Simmons can take it, even if Steve thinks it’s beautiful. He’ll rebalance. If he’s still dangerous it doesn’t matter. Detach the blasted thing and melt it down. He’d never asked for it.

God knows he’s tried. When he wasn’t bound tightly enough and the hand he could control tore at the one he couldn’t. He’d left that out of the telling with May. She doesn’t need to know. No one really does. How much work Hydra had to do fixing damage he’d done to himself. How many fights he tried to lose to just make it end.

But he won. 

The bottle is empty. Bucky tosses it into the forcefield and it bounces off, rolls down the hill until it encounters the barrier again and sits, fizzing and sputtering against the invisible limit. That’s kinda funny. Through the Scotch it’s funnier than it has any right to be and he chuckles at it. Watches it bounce until the struggle winds into his head and makes him dizzy and he turns away from it.

He lifts himself up onto the fence and hooks his feet into the beams and tilts back. He locks the motors in his hand to maintain his grip if he slips, one of the only things he can be grateful for, and leans almost horizontal. The clouds swarm overhead in absolutely offensive shades of purple and orange, so beautiful they have no shame at all. 

Could Fitz-Simmons even stomach taking that arm? Bandaging cuts is one thing. Looking down at him spread out on a table and cutting the wires and pulling the steel away is another thing entirely. Could their souls even take it?

And what then? Even if they can help, even if they take it all out in one go, he’s not going home. No home to go home to. No staying here, not with Stark and Banner running around and SHIELD keeping it as a superhero B&B. Russian prison. CIA black site. A brief walk behind a munitions shed if they’ve got any sense.

He deserves it.

 _They_ deserve it.

But they’re all dead. He’s not.

 _Hydra_ deserves it. But he’s going to pay for it.

The orange retreats from the sky and leaves sheets of indigo with stars poking through. There were sunsets like that, on the beach. He hadn’t been able to appreciate them. It was the time of day when he was looking for a safe place to stop. Safe-ish. Safe enough.

 _God_ what he wouldn’t give… A cooler wind picks up, and brings the smell of rain. How much is he worth to SHIELD? How much time? How many sunsets? How much rain?

One more day, anyway. Tomorrow. One more storm, anyway. He closes his eyes to wait for the rain.

Footsteps rush toward him. There’s only one other person here but it takes him a second to remember. And for a furious instant he wants to tell Steve to go away. He isn’t done. Maybe when the sun has gone down completely he’ll come back inside. Maybe after it starts to rain.

He curls back up on the fence and Steve grabs for the front of his shirt. Steve hauls him forward and yanks him to his feet so fast his arm winds up twisted behind him, still locked on tight, and he grimaces until he thinks to let it go. Steve’s face is wide panic, and that’s more important.

“What? What happened?” Bucky says.

Steve snatches him up in his arms, crushing the breath out of him, and his panic is contagious. What the hell happened? Something bad, if Steve is scared.

“Hey, what is it?” Bucky says. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

Baby? Did he just call Steve “baby?” Yeah, but it sounded right.

Steve pants in his neck, beyond words. Bucky strokes his back and tries to remember how to be comforting even though he wants comfort. Steve scared is disorienting.

“Baby you’re scaring me,” Bucky says. “What is it?”

Did he talk to the Iron Man? Did Tony call Steve back? Or is he on his way? What?

Steve kisses up the side of his neck, and that’s confusing. He takes Bucky’s face in both of his hands and presses their lips firmly together, and that’s very confusing. Nice, but confusing. What causes both panic and kissing? Bucky lets Steve kiss him but catches his eyes when he stops.

“What happened, Steve?”

Steve shakes his head and heaves a sigh. He wraps his arms around Bucky’s shoulders, his heart pounding into Bucky’s chest, and his voice wavers on delivery but he makes himself heard.

“I swear to God I could see you falling.”

Relief and guilt crash into Bucky together. They’re okay, everything is okay, nothing bad happened, they aren’t going back to war.

But _he_ had scared Steve. He had almost forgotten Steve could be scared. Forgotten what Steve had been through… 

Bucky tightens his arms around Steve’s back. “I’m sorry. I’m alright.”

Steve just wears trauma better. The serum gave him more than physical resilience. But Steve couldn’t see the mechanisms in Bucky’s arm and the strength in his hand and how secure he had actually been. Steve could only see Bucky, high over a long drop, and do his damnedest to prevent the fall.

“Please don’t do that,” Steve says.

“Okay, okay, I won’t. I’m sorry. I’m here.”

For whatever that was worth.

Steve cradles Bucky’s face in his hands and gazes at him with the comfort in the wake of fear that is nearly joy. And it’s baffling, that Captain Motherfucking America even tolerates him, let alone wants him. Protects him. Kisses him and smiles at him and tells him he loves him and _God_ touches him like it’s life itself, like he’s real and good and worth it.

Had he had to die to deserve this? He’d never know. But he had.

“I love you,” Steve says.

Yeah… Jesus, yeah, he does, doesn’t he? With his eyes shining like that, and his hands so gentle on Bucky’s face, and his breath so close to Bucky’s lips, still panting a little but calming down. Wow. 

“I love you,” Bucky says back, truth and a promise.

And Steve kisses him, so softly this time, so relieved this time. Would it have been like this, if Steve had pulled Bucky back into the train? He’d never know. But he hadn’t.

“I was going to say food’s up,” Steve says.

“Careful, Rogers,” Bucky says. “I’m starting to trust you in the kitchen.”

“Hey, say what you will, Captain America can cook.”

“Nah. Steve just learned how.”

Steve takes Bucky’s hand, and he holds it walking back up the hill. Thunder rolls and summer heat lightning flashes over their heads. In the cabin Steve rests his fingers on Bucky’s arm or his hip or his stomach, keeps him in arms reach as they plate up food. Dinner is something simple cobbled from rice and chicken and vegetables on which neither of them comment but it’s pretty good. Rain starts to drum on the roof when they sit down and Steve stretches a leg out under the table and crosses their shins. He’s the one who needs to keep in contact now. Bucky knows all about that.

Probably shouldn’t ask if Steve talked to Stark. Steve will tell him, if he thinks he needs to know. Otherwise best to leave the Avengers to their own. And tell May about the Starks tomorrow. Get that report out of the way, on record and someone else’s problem.

Should probably tell Steve about Fitz-Simmons though.

“Talked to Fitz-Simmons,” Bucky says. “Said they’d be by with Wanda tomorrow. They’re saying something about processors and memory storage and being able to deactivate… whatever happened yesterday.”

“I know. I talked to May after you left.”

“Oh.”

Of course he did. SHIELD still thinks he’s here for security. Keeping him up to speed.

“Did she say anything about my arm?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah. We’ll figure it out. Whatever it is.”

Bucky shrugs. Scotch has loosened his tongue and he lets it run.

“I can still shoot with one arm,” he says. “Balance will be a little off but I’ll get it.”

“I believe you,” Steve says.

“Won’t miss the weight. Been lugging this thing around long enough already.”

“Yeah.”

“At least I’m right handed. My handwriting will be just as terrible as ever.”

Steve sighs and shakes his head.

“You don’t have to do that. You don’t have to joke about it.”

“What’s the alternative?”

“You’ve got plenty to be mad about. You can be mad.”

“What, like you?” Bucky snaps.

Too far. Steve sets his jaw and looks down at his plate and doesn’t say anything. No, letting his tongue run on Scotch was not a good idea. He’s _right_. Steve’s too good at talking without saying anything, shoves too much under his bed, doesn’t have a bit of room to talk about keeping anger tamped down and sitting quiet on it. He’s _right_.

But it doesn’t matter if he’s right. Steve is more important.

“Look man, I didn’t mean it like…” Bucky starts.

Steve turns and hooks a foot behind one of the legs of Bucky’s chair and pulls it around to face him. Bucky is distinctly aware of how much he weighs and how easily Steve just moved him around. And Steve has his full attention.

“You’re right, I got plenty to be mad about too,” Steve says. “But I got…”

He waves his hands expansively, indicating a whole world of things he’s got.

“I got a life. I got a home. I lost a lot but I got stuff you don’t. You don’t get to pick at me for putting on a brave face here. I can afford it.”

“Fine,” Bucky says, and he can feel his voice rising into the argument and can’t stop it. He tried. “But what the hell do you think I’m gonna do, sit here and whine about it? Ruin the… fifth… good meal I’ve had since fucking nineteen forty four bitching about shit you already know? Yeah, I’m pissed, and I’m fucking terrified, but this is almost… Being here with you, it’s like…”

He can’t finish. But he doesn’t have to.

“Home,” Steve says quietly.

“And I don’t know how long that’s gonna last and neither do you. So how about I let you be cagey if you want and you just let me be an asshole, alright?”

Steve lays his hand on Bucky’s knee, and nods once. When he looks up the fight has left his eyes. And he’s not happy about the détente but he’ll live.

“Just don’t want you thinking you’ve gotta pretend anything,” Steve says.

“I don’t have to pretend to be an asshole.”

Steve opens his mouth, thinks better of it, and closes it again around a faint smile that says enough anyway. He squeezes Bucky’s knee and lets go, turns back to his plate and picks up his fork.

“Just wanted you to know,” Steve says.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and shuffles his chair back around.

The music isn’t playing anymore. The rain is. It doesn’t fill the silence as well but it’s better than nothing.

“Y’know, I’m not even messed up about the arm,” Bucky says. “I’m really not. I just don’t want to hurt anyone else.”

“I know.”

“Yeah. You probably do, don’t you.”

“This may come as a surprise but turns out I don’t really enjoy being a soldier.”

Bucky scoffs and kicks his foot under the table.

“Give me a break, you were a soldier for all of a week. They never even made Captain America turn out for PT.”

“Hey they didn’t make you either.”

“Just cuz following you was enough work for three of me and Carter knew it.”

“Nobody made you.”

“You never had to.”

Steve runs the back of his foot down Bucky’s shin and leaves their legs crossed again. He knows. He barely had to ask. Nothing would’ve kept him away, once he knew Steve was there. It’s only fair. Nothing kept Steve away, looking for him in the first place. Good thing he wasn’t really a soldier or he would’ve been court martialed for that stunt in Azzano.

“‘Sides, what the hell was I gonna do,” Bucky says, “let your dumb ass run out there alone without somebody smart watching your six?”

Steve smiles.

“Asshole.”

“But you love me,” Bucky says.

“Yeah,” Steve says.

Clearing up the dishes takes less than no time at all with Bucky washing and Steve drying and putting them away. With the last of them Steve takes half the step he needs to get around Bucky at the sink so their clothes rustle together and the air warms between them when he moves. He’s doing that on purpose. And he noses into Bucky’s hair when he’s behind him. He’s teasing again. Good. Their argument is well and truly over. Good. Bucky rocks back on his heels and makes the contact solid and Steve stops.

He wraps his arms around Bucky’s shoulders and breathes soft down his jaw, suggesting just the edges of his lips, and Bucky shivers. Steve lifts his hair away from his neck and draws the same light line from the lobe of his ear to the collar of his shirt. And it sounds ridiculous until you’ve felt it but Bucky’s knees go weak and his back in Steve’s chest supports most of his unstable weight. _Christ_ it’s been _ages_. Touch that has no purpose but mutual enjoyment, not a combat or an exam, just for the sake of how _sweet_ it feels. The tip of Steve’s tongue slips in the crook of his neck, and only Steve’s arms at his shoulders keep him upright.

Is he sober? Yeah, he’s sober now. Drunk doesn’t last long, unfortunate side effect. Alcohol isn’t making him wobbly. Just Steve.

When the slow teasing has Bucky panting and riled up to Steve’s satisfaction he opens his mouth on Bucky’s neck and bites down. And creeping up on that force doesn’t lessen it, it intensifies it, sends it screaming through Bucky’s veins. He moans and it almost sounds like a scream, the sound is so hard to control, surprise and pain and joy mingling and modulating his voice. It hurts _just_ enough, to notice without worrying. If Steve wasn’t kidding, if he wasn’t rough before Bucky brought it out of him, Steve’s a fucking _natural_. If he could bottle that talent he’d retire richer than selling the serum.

When he releases his teeth Bucky turns in his arms to face him and Steve powers into him with a kiss that sends the same message as the bite. Steve has to hold one hand out to catch himself against the counter so he doesn’t throw Bucky back into it. Not that he’d really mind. Steve kisses him like thunder rolling over him, a force of nature, and if he’s battered by it that’s just how things go. 

Steve pulls back and Bucky’s eyelids flutter open to look at him.

“God…” Steve breathes. “You are so beautiful.”

Fuck that noise. Yeah, okay, so back in the day he could’ve agreed with that. Modesty is one thing but he knew he was gorgeous. Now? Steve’s gotta be blind. Everything he’s done in the time that’s passed shows on his face. Eyes that saw so much death… 

“I missed you,” Steve says. “Every day.”

Bucky’s vision blurs. God dammit. God damn Steve. He blinks to clear the sheen of tears.

“I missed you,” he mumbles. Not nearly the truth of it. But the only available words.

Their hands twist in each other’s shirts. His right is over Steve’s heart, and Steve’s over his. Pumping together, within and conjoined.

And he can imagine it. The kind of contact he needs, the kind of contact Steve needs. And an opportunity for Steve to lose it and take it out on him. He deserves it. 

And he suspects he knows how to make that happen. He kisses along Steve’s cheek to bring his lips to his ear.

“Steve?”

“Mm?”

“Fuck me.”

Steve’s answering groan sounds almost painful. But it sounds like a Yes. He stands back, and meets Bucky’s eyes, challenging him to change his mind. He doesn’t. Won’t.

“Bedroom,” Steve says.

And he waits for Bucky to move first. He’s gotta show he means it. And he does. Steve follows him. And shuts the door behind them.

Bucky stands beside the bed and watches Steve yank his shirt off. Figures he ought to do the same. A bit of nervousness twists in his stomach standing so far apart from him, undressing themselves instead of each other, but that’s the point. What he’s nervous about, that’s what he’s angling for. Being detached, just a focus for Steve, and it seems to be working. Steve strides across the room and pulls the bedside table drawer open and a number of small plastic bottles in assorted suggestive colors roll into one another.

“Stark?” Bucky says.

“Hell if I know,” Steve says.

He lifts one of the bottles seemingly at random and sets it out. He steps behind Bucky and brings his foot up into the back of Bucky’s knee, collapsing him forward. His knees slam into the bedframe and he catches himself on his hands on the mattress. Jesus, yes, Steve’s not kidding around. Steve pulls Bucky’s sweats and shorts down together and off over his feet, stands and kicks Bucky’s feet a step apart and Bucky hears the cap of the bottle snap open.

“Don’t move,” Steve says.

He doesn’t move. Steve’s fingertips are cold circling around his asshole but only for a second, lubricant warming quickly on their skin before Steve dips inside.

It’s a new place to be. Hadn’t interested him, with the girls in the past. And he can’t even extrapolate backwards for this, hasn’t been in Steve’s position either. Hadn’t felt right, the way girls talked about getting fucked in the ass like something a guy tricks her into and makes her put up with. His momma had raised him cocky but she’d raised him sweet and he’d never asked. He didn’t want to be that guy. He had a reputation, but it wasn’t _that_ reputation, and he liked it that way. 

But this is not working out as planned. Steve is being careful. He’s being gentle and he’s being slow, easing the tips of his fingers in and stopping, pressing in only to the first knuckle and stopping again, and holding Bucky’s hips still with the other hand so Bucky can’t even move back onto him. He’s slammed into a wall at full speed and it’s infuriating.

“Dammit Steve just do it,” Bucky says.

“No,” Steve says. “There’s hurting and then again there’s hurting. I’ll pull your hair but I’m not gonna fuck you if you’re not ready for it.”

And he doesn’t. He won’t. He doesn’t speed up, he works deliberately, and it’s… that’s not right, it feels… _God_ it feels _good_. Different kinds of good, the skin of Steve’s fingers sliding along at his entrance is of a kind with fingers moving on his cock but _Jesus_ when Steve crooks his finger inside it’s like pleasure socking him in the gut. _What_ the _fuck_... 

“And I’m not gonna let you use me to hurt yourself,” Steve says. “You’re gonna enjoy this if it kills me. Hear me?”

He has to nod. He has to nod or Steve’s not gonna keep going. Even if Steve saw right through him and doesn’t plan on letting him get away with it. Doesn’t matter, it’s gonna hurt anyway, right? Whatever Steve says he’s gonna be putting up with it.

Maybe. Probably.

He nods.

Steve directs Bucky’s right hand to his own cock.

“Touch yourself,” Steve says.

He obeys. And that changes everything. The sensations align and snap into focus, stop being strange and confusing and become clear and right. Steve’s fingers move more easily, move further along, and with his hand on his cock discovering something new is like remembering something familiar. His body has turned traitor and joined Steve in an understanding he doesn’t have.

Bucky’s voice when he hears it has dropped nearly a full octave in its cries. That’s weird. But it’s obvious, must be obvious to Steve, that he’s not in pain and he’s taking what Steve’s giving and Steve pulls his hand back. Bucky hears his zipper and the clatter of his pants hitting the floor and the cap of the bottle snap open again. Then the hot and silk soft skin pressing against him is the head of Steve’s cock and he holds his breath and closes his eyes to feel.

He can’t help the hiss that escapes him when the stretch stings and Steve hears it and he _stops_ God damn him. Steve is not out of control, he’s not _taking_ the opportunity Bucky fucking _handed_ him and Bucky wants to scream. He’d expected to endure. He’d expected to suffer. 

But Steve tortures him with pleasure instead and it’s _worse_ , he doesn’t have mechanisms to cope with that. He can breathe through pain but he can’t breathe when Steve pulls back and rocks in shallow over and over, dragging over that place his fingers had found and it knocks the wind out of him. And he tries to push back and drive Steve into him and he _can’t_ , Steve has hold of his hips and he’s not moving far in that grip, there’s _nothing_ he can do but whine and trust and hope.

And _wail_ when his body relaxes of its own accord and Steve finally fills him. It doesn’t hurt and that’s not _fair_! It’s fucking _glorious_ and he’s been lied to. He didn’t know. But Steve knew.

“Oh God yes,” Steve grumbles behind him. “Christ Jesus Bucky… Bucky…”

Steve is easy for a bit with long slow strokes, groaning and blaspheming and repeating his name like it won’t be true anymore if he stops. And Bucky can’t speak but he’s finding cries he never had use for before. Cries that don’t even sound like himself for the way opening up around Steve turns his body into one great humming sigh, for how he’s heated throughout and and pleasured within, the _beautiful_ inverse of his hand on his cock. 

Then Steve steps on the gas, working the entire length of his cock faster, and every one of Bucky’s cries takes on a question in tone. _How_ is it so fucking _good_ , _how_ did he not _know_ this? But it had to be. After it had been his hope for ages, his sure and certain knowledge in the cold, that Steve was a part of him, rushing through his veins with his heartbeat, it had to be beautiful, feeling it.

His hand fumbles on himself, there’s too much going on, too much moving, too much distraction. He can feel the one or the other. Steve driving in his ass takes focus from his cock, palming his cock dulls the sensation of friction, and he can’t have both.

And Steve does pull his hair, with one hand wrapped in solid to pull his head back and make him curl his spine and that changes the angle and it feels _better_ , that’s not _right_ , it’s _perfect_. Steve’s working up a little soreness in his ass, not used to this, but he doesn’t care. He’s enjoying even if he hadn’t meant to, accepts the truth of it under Steve’s intention, and it’s good, it’s _so_ good, and it’s _Steve_. Both hands fall to the mattress. He’s not gonna come like this but he doesn’t fucking care. Steve is.

He braces his knees on the bedframe to maximize every thrust and Steve’s breathing rough. He’s swelled harder and opening Bucky further and it’s not gonna last cuz he’s just about to come but for the next few seconds it’s the best thing Bucky has ever felt.

Steve’s voice disintegrates into the undignified sounds of ecstacy and he sheaths himself deep and shudders. And Bucky can _feel_ it, another pulse inside his body, Steve’s pulse, just for a moment. Within and conjoined. And _that_ takes pride of place as the best thing he’s ever felt.

Steve lets go of his hair. Lays his hand flat on Bucky’s shoulder and runs it down the middle of his back. Holds his hips still as the pulses subside. Sighs and leans over him to kiss his shoulderblade and finally bring them into sweet covering contact. Steve’s dripping sweat and feeling it on his back makes Bucky realize he is too, and his mouth is dry from all the noise and heavy breath, and a drink of water passes through his mind as a good idea before Steve straightens and steps back and slips free of his body and his mind blanks again.

“Lie down,” Steve says.

Yeah, he can do that. His legs are shaking. He lies down on his back and Steve kneels between his legs. He takes Bucky’s cock in one hand and slides fingers of the other into him and Bucky whines gratitude. He’s not done. He’s not going to leave Bucky hanging on the edge. 

Most of the lubrication on Steve’s fingers is his own come and there’s something ferociously interesting about that. He curls his fingers and pumps his hand and _that_ is gonna work. Oh and it’s not gonna take very long and _God_ he wishes it was Steve’s cock but as least he’ll have Steve inside him when he comes.

“Steve…” he moans at the ceiling, the arch already starting in his back.

“Yeah, baby. I’m here. You gonna come?”

Bucky can only nod. Yeah, he is, any second if Steve doesn’t stop. 

“Come on,” Steve says. “Come for me.”

Following orders has never been so wonderful. He implodes on Steve’s hands, feeling his own pulse gripping Steve’s fingers tight and gripped in Steve’s palm, and that’s fair. That’s fair.

While he’s still twitching with it and his skin buzzes with the receding orgasm Steve takes the bottle back and slicks his cock again and seats himself deep in one stroke. Jesus Bucky was right to suspect, he’s back up and at it quick. And oversensitive nerves go ballistic when Steve slams clenching muscles open and pounds down into him and _that_ is what he’d been angling for. 

Though it’s not, it’s really not, because Steve’s taking him _hard_ but he’s holding him and he’s kissing him and he’s clasping at him while he fucks him like even being inside him isn’t close enough. And it’s different _again_ , whirling around after he’s already come, confusing his body into thinking his orgasm is still going on. With Steve’s body over him and holding him he’s lost and anchored, disoriented and completely secure. He writhes and grips back at Steve and now his cries are _crying_ but it’s pleasure in tears and sobbing. It’s just too much, it’s all too much, time passes without meaning in a wilderness of sensation and there’s nothing but Steve, nothing but his body and his movement and suddenly his voice, tumbling into Bucky’s ear strained like he’s fighting back a lump in his throat too. 

Steve has kissed him and he’s pressed their faces together and he’s gasping, “Mine.”

Yes. Oh thank God yes.

Bucky finds his voice just enough to say, “Yours.”

And when Steve comes again he’s silent, with his face buried in Bucky’s neck, and the weight of him almost completely still, not even breathing. But beating, hard, where they’re joined. It’s impossible that such a brief moment could last forever but it does, frozen and reaching out to eternity and bringing eternity back before it’s over, in the memory he will _never_ lose.

Steve kisses him, just pressing their lips together lightly so they can still breathe but they can feel it. God the soft shape of his lips, there will never be enough of this. Steve moves off and reclines next to him, wraps them up tight together on their sides and kisses him again.

“Buck?” Steve whispers. “Open your eyes.”

He has no idea how long they’ve been closed. He opens them and Steve is close and questioning.

“You with me?” Steve says.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Yeah, I’m here. That was… a little intense.”

“Me too,” Steve says. And that doesn’t really make sense but meaning gets through.

They recover slowly, sniffling and sighing and mindlessly trailing fingers around on each others’ faces. The memories solidify and reappear, to be replayed and saved. What he’d done. What he’d felt. What he’d said.

What he’d heard. Rational thought catches up. What Steve had said. Steve said “Mine.” And Bucky knew it was true.

His what? Boyfriend? Sheesh, how stupid does that sound, that’s a word for kids. Lover? Not so bad.

But maybe not his anything. Just… his. If he has a place, it’s where Steve is. Where he belongs. Belongs with, belongs to… Semantics.

If… that’s what Steve meant.

“So everybody talks a lot of shit when they’re fucking, right…” Bucky says.

Steve brushes Bucky’s hair out of his face and threads his fingers into it.

“Was that shit?” Steve says.

No. Maybe not. Probably not.

“Y’know, I mean, maybe we’re just fucking around,” Bucky says. “Nothing wrong with that.”

“Not with you,” Steve says, and tightens his hand in Bucky’s hair. “If that’s what you want I’ll live but if you’re asking me I’d rather this was more than that.”

Bucky sighs and leans into his hand. He would too. And that’s _so_ nice to hear. 

“So I’m… yours,” Bucky says.

“I’ll have you if you’ll be had,” Steve says. He kisses between Bucky’s eyes, and smiles. “My Bucky.”

Yeah. Good enough. His, and Bucky. That’ll work.

“So just, y’know, just for my own information,” Bucky says, “how many times can you do that?”

Steve stammers, “Uh… I dunno. Depends, I guess. Haven’t had much chance to try.”

“Bullshit. You’re too good at that.”

“I said not much, not none. I’m a quick study.”

“Obviously. There’s some lucky tutor out there.”

“Nobody you need to worry about,” Steve says, shaking his head.

“Not the Avengers then?”

“Not the Avengers. Don’t shit where you eat.”

“Got that right.”

Bucky peels himself away and sits up. Leaves his hand on Steve’s leg so he knows.

“I have an idea,” Bucky says.

“What’s that?”

“Shower. We’re a Godawful mess.”

Steve laughs, and pulls himself up next to him.

“Genius. And there’s spare sheets in the dresser in the other room.”

“Washing machine?”

“Through the pantry. In the morning.”

“It’s always in the morning with you. And then it’s the next morning and then it’s the next fucking week…”

“Oh shut up.”

Bucky stands on awkward rubber legs with sore muscles between but it’s not far to the bathroom and it’s okay besides. It’s his body’s memory and that’s okay. Steve doesn’t seem to be favoring his right leg as much, they get to the shower alright and clean off with many a lingering glance and slow smile remembering and promising and looking forward to climbing back into the bed for sleep and the peace that brings. Together. Possessed. Sheltered.

And Bucky changes the sheets. And hangs a spare set in the window.


	4. Connections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coulson’s team escort Wanda Maximoff to the Retreat, for the purpose of deactivating the Winter Soldier once and for all.

Bucky wakes from a dream into a dream. Skin fades into skin, hot along his back. He thinks he’s awake when he opens his eyes and sees the bedroom of the Retreat in nighttime darkness. Knows he’s awake when he hears Steve snoring in his ear. It’s still the middle of the night. There’s plenty of sleep left for him.

A drink of water is a good idea. You’d think the genius of Tony Stark could design an HVAC system more powerful than summertime but it’s almost as warm inside as it is outside and they’re sweating through the nights. He steals out from under Steve’s arm and out of the bed to retrieve a glass from the kitchen. It’s not a difficult environment to navigate in the dark and he’s learned it well enough. Almost feels like he’s entitled to the cabinet and the glasses, though that’s a dangerous thought to get used to.

He drinks the water down and refills the glass and brings it back to set it on the bedside table. Next to the little bottle of lube with the blue cap. He shakes his head and smiles just for himself, remembering. Maybe that’s an even more dangerous thought to get used to. But he’s got Steve’s conviction behind that one, too.

He lies back in the bed on his left side. He’d rather keep that arm down if he’s got the choice, less available, just in case. And Steve wraps up behind him. One of Steve’s arms slips under his head and the other around his waist and up his chest, pulling him close. He’d figured Steve was awake, he wasn’t hearing the snore anymore, and he kinda feels bad about waking him up but Steve doesn’t seem to mind. Bucky bundles between his arms and Steve’s fingers skim through the hair on Bucky’s chest. He nuzzles into Bucky’s neck, the movement of his lips prickling Bucky’s skin with tickling stubble.

“You always wake up like this?” Bucky says.

Steve murmurs sweet aroused sounds and licks out at Bucky’s neck. “Always have when it was you waking me up.”

“Oh spare me,” Bucky says.

“It’s true,” Steve says.

He props himself up on one elbow behind Bucky’s head, and his other glides down Bucky’s stomach.

“You’d come home late,” Steve says, “and tiptoe around the room so you wouldn’t wake me up.”

Steve’s fingers tiptoe back up his ribs and Bucky wriggles and grins. He remembers.

“But I was awake soon as you walked through the door.”

“Sorry,” Bucky says. “I tried.”

Steve wraps his hand in Bucky’s hair and Bucky hums soft enjoyment.

“I knew you’d been out dancing ‘cuz I could smell the pomade in your hair,” Steve says.

Yeah, yeah, that was true. You could smell that shit across the room if you’d worked up a sweat. But Bucky hadn’t thought Steve had ever noticed… 

Steve splays his hand out and drags it down Bucky’s side, resting at his hip and pulling him back onto a growing erection. Horrible, horrible tease of a man.

“And if I’d been any closer I would’ve been able to smell the girls on you…” Steve says.

Bucky sucks air in through his teeth. That was probably true too. But it doesn’t seem very nice, talking about all the girls while he’s in bed with Steve.

Steve leans over Bucky’s back to bring his lips to his ear, and his fingernails stamp crescents into the flesh over Bucky’s hip.

“...‘cuz they’d been touching you like I couldn’t.”

Oh… Yeah, that happened. Jesus, had Steve really been thinking about it like that then? Bucky feels a bit of a heel not taking a shower before he’d gone into their room. Though he wouldn’t have, if he’d known. He’d have joined Steve in bed.

“I could hear you undress,” Steve whispers, “and crawl into your bed.”

He drags his fingernails down Bucky’s thigh, raising warm stripes. His touch recalls shed clothing and a deliberate recasting of their nakedness in each others’ presence. Son of a bitch, he’s pitching Bucky back and forth between then and now, drawing memories old and new on his skin, and Bucky pants in sweet confusion.

“I could hear the sheets on your skin…”

The tips of Steve’s fingers smooth over the tender lines he raised, mimicking the remembered sheets. And his breath on those whispered esses raises the hairs on Bucky’s neck. 

“…and I’d be hard before I knew it…”

Steve rolls his hips, as if the line needed any emphasis. He’s made it readily apparent that this wasn’t new for him either. That he’d been sitting on it at home too. But hearing him _say_ he’d wanted that, when Bucky hadn’t had the slightest idea… 

“…and I’d hope you didn’t know I was awake…”

He didn’t.

“…and listening…”

God dammit.

“…because all I knew of your skin was the sound of the sheets. And I had to imagine…”

Steve’s hand stretches out on Bucky’s inner thigh, his wrist just brushing at his groin. And that was a line cast for a response. Steve stops speaking and waits for it. Bucky’s mouth has gone dry and he has to shift his tongue around to find it.

“Wh- What did you imagine?” Bucky says.

Steve’s hand closes around Bucky’s cock.

“This,” Steve says.

He’d seen that coming. So what?

Steve’s said enough. His mouth goes to work on Bucky’s neck instead, and a few strokes in Steve’s hand has Bucky completely present. He’s not imagining and wanting skin he can’t have but _having_ it here and now and vanishing in it.

Steve covers him in the arch of his body, caving him into the bed. He nibbles at the curve of Bucky’s shoulder and kneads his cock in his hand. He squeezes his fingers tighter to meet over the head and moans when Bucky gasps. The sounds Steve makes touching him are the same as when he’s touched, he enjoys this just as much and that’s intriguing. 

Steve’s cock presses insistent against his ass and Steve grumbles a little frustration. He’s holding himself up on his left elbow so he’s only got one hand free, the other pinned useless under Bucky’s head, and he’s annoyed by that. Can’t address Bucky’s cock and his ass at the same time. But that’s fine. Bucky brushes Steve’s hand away and trades him, picking himself up to give Steve other opportunities. Steve gets the message and reaches for the bottle on the nightstand. Bucky doesn’t have to think about his hand on himself, that’s a motion he can put on autopilot and focus on Steve. 

Steve pops the cap open and flips the bottle around in his hand, balancing it and catching a handful of the dripping liquid before he bangs the cap closed on Bucky’s hip and drops the bottle on the bed. That’s… a heck of a little trick. Watching his skilled hand is almost as sexy as feeling it, but Bucky gets both in short order. Steve swipes his wet palm between the cheeks of Bucky’s ass, spreading the lubrication onto his fingers, and plays at Bucky’s entrance to make him whimper before he slips a finger into him and whimpers turn to contented sighs.

Steve toys him open, no faster than he did last night but it’s easier. Now he knows. It still takes a minute, a frustrating minute Bucky would rather skip and tries not to show in his voice, negotiating with his body around its first burning protest and subsequent grudging acceptance. But he knows, he can remind himself that yes, really, if you trust me this is going to feel amazing. He has to trust Steve and deal with his body’s parameters until they finally relax, like they’ve remembered the words to the song they’ve been trying to sing and joined in. 

Two of Steve’s fingers sink into him smoothly and he curls his knuckles to drive out that pleasure from Bucky’s abdomen that still kinda makes him feel like he’s gotta take a piss but it’s _so fucking good_. He’s crying out low, what the hell is it about Steve taking his ass that makes his voice drop so far, and Steve breathes small versions of the sounds back. 

And Steve is _good_ with his hand but it’s not enough. Bucky lets go of himself and reaches back, crossing his arm awkwardly over Steve’s to grab for his cock and let him know. He’s gotta have that before he hits the point of inevitability. God he wants to know what it’s like to come with Steve inside him.

“More,” Bucky says, reeling.

But Steve removes his hand from Bucky’s ass to take Bucky’s wrist and move it to his other hand, restraining Bucky’s arm across his own chest. Steve’s not gonna let him call the shots. He doesn’t have enough hands to stop Bucky arching his hips back but he still can’t force it. Steve’s cock just slips on him and _God_ it’s not enough.

“More,” Bucky repeats. Maybe Steve hadn’t heard him.

Steve doesn’t respond. He replaces his hand at Bucky’s ass and eases the tips of three fingers into his opening, but that’s not what he meant.

“Please,” Bucky says. “Fuck me.”

Steve doesn’t respond. He doesn’t stop with his hand but no, _no_ Bucky’s had _enough_ of that, knowing how good his cock feels and being denied it.

“Come on. You know I want it.”

“I know,” Steve says, and rolls those three fingers inside him, and leaves silence for him to fill.

“God, Steve,” Bucky says, “you want me to beg?”

That gets an aroused and curious moan out of Steve, and his tongue swiping at the lobe of Bucky’s ear, and a deeply grumbled, “Yes.”

Oh. 

Um. 

Shit, isn’t that always how it is, someone wants you to talk and you’ve got nothing to say. 

Well, Bucky’s big mouth got him into this and it’s the only thing that’ll get him out of it. Easy enough to keep going with Please.

“Please,” Bucky says. “Please, Steve.”

Tell the truth. Don’t worry about how it sounds.

“I want to feel you. Fuck me, please.”

Steve rumbles wordless appreciation and Bucky hears the cap on the bottle again.

“Yes, please, come on,” Bucky says.

Broader, softer heat seats between the cheeks of his ass, the head of Steve’s cock aimed inward, and Steve pauses. Slipping there, waiting. Damn and blast. Bucky can’t see him. He’s got his back to Steve and can’t see his face, can’t see if he’s smiling or blazing.

“Baby please, please don’t stop, please.”

Steve breaches him, just spreading that sensitive ring of muscle over the flare of his cock, and as Bucky sighs in solace Steve pulls back. That’s just _mean_.

“No, Steve come on, please, I want it, please.”

Steve inches forward and back again. It feels incredible, in other circumstances just the sensation of opening around him again and again would be enough, but Bucky is desperate for the rest of it.

“Please God no, it’s not enough, please.”

Steve is so close, just barely rounded into his body, he’s all that Bucky can feel. Not the air or the sheets or the machinery jabbing into his side but about two square inches of Steve’s skin. He’s tormenting without reward and Bucky doesn’t know what it’s going to take, what he’s got to say before Steve has enough and lets him stop. If he will at all.

“More. God, please, more. Steve, please!”

He can hear himself but he isn’t controlling the words. He’s not breathing well. He’s panting and hyperventilating. That’s not helping him think. But there’s not a thing he can do about it.

He should know now. He should know.

Steve wants this as bad as Bucky. He’s just playing. But that’s a rational thought and arousal drives out reason. Steve is going to fuck him. But he might not. Steve is going to stay. But he might not. Steve wants him. But maybe he doesn’t.

“Please I’ll do anything _please_ I want you _please_ don’t go!”

Steve’s head snaps up and he takes in a sharp breath like he’s been stung.

“Oh, baby, no,” Steve says.

Steve interlaces his fingers into the hand he’s holding and finally flexes his hips and completely buries himself, stabbing heat into Bucky and freeing a grateful howl from his throat. Bucky feels that his whole body is making the sound, as if his skin could shout.

“No, baby, you’re mine,” Steve says. “God you are so good, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Please…” Bucky gasps, caught in the loop and clutching at Steve’s hand.

“Yes,” Steve says.

He sets up a deep and purposeful tempo, hardly removing himself to thrust earnestly. Bucky says, “Please,” and Steve says, “Yes,” again, and his body does not belie his words. Steve fills him and keeps him filled, punching ecstacy out of him with every movement, and Bucky falls into his rhythm. He’s not teasing. He’s not tormenting. He’s not leaving.

Steve closes his slick hand around Bucky’s cock and pumps it in time with his hips. It’s not easy like this, neither of them has much range of motion curled up on their sides, but nothing could make him stop to change it up. Any way that Bucky moves he finds pleasure there, forward into Steve’s hand or back onto his cock, and he quivers between.

Steve lengthens his strokes, and Bucky finds the same strangeness he found there before, the contesting sensations dulling both. Getting fucked and trying to come is like trying to listen to two songs at the same time and no matter how beautiful they are separately together they become noise and he’s missing half the lyrics to both. Not every wonderful sensation leads to orgasm and it’s hateful but it’s true. 

And after the fear and the relief he _needs_ to come, _needs_ Steve to make him come. His body is _begging_ him for release and his spirit for that giving in to Steve. Steve loves getting him off. Steve loves him.

And Steve can’t know. Bucky’s gotta tell him. He’s gotta say something.

“I don’t… I can’t… I need you t-…” Bucky says, and he runs out of breath.

Steve slows but doesn’t stop.

“Tell me what you need,” Steve says.

Bucky unweaves his hand from Steve’s under his head and plants it on Steve’s hip.

“Don’t… move… much…” Bucky says.

Steve nods on his shoulder. He holds himself deep and rolls his hips in tiny circles to push inside Bucky just enough to keep himself hard without being too distracting. So Bucky can focus on his hand, stroking faster and harder now Steve knows his goal. And the constant pressure being filled by him is a harmony to the melody his hand plays, now that it’s not competing for Bucky’s attention.

“That,” Bucky gasps. “God yes…”

“You are incredible…” Steve says. “I want to feel you come.”

Bucky whimpers, “God yes,” over and over, losing track and burrowing his head into Steve’s arm. He will. He will. And Steve will be with him when he does.

And when his orgasm takes him he tries to direct the tension to his hands and keep his hips still, keep him from bucking away from Steve, and it mostly works. He feels himself spasm and tighten hard around Steve’s cock, increasing the delicious pressure and heightening his release in Steve’s hand. And there’s going to be something missing, if he has to come without that, now he’s felt it.

A tiny part of his mind worries that _he_ might actually be hurting _Steve_ , clenching him so tight. Though if he is, Steve doesn’t show it. Steve moans approval, watching him, and surfing his body’s convulsions to keep them together.

“Good Lord,” Steve says. “Good _Lord_ you feel good.”

Steve pulls out and thrusts back into him. Aftershocks make that unpleasant and Bucky twitches and clutches at Steve’s hip to stop him. 

“One sec,” Bucky says. “Gimme a second.”

Bucky takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Steve kisses his shoulder, and wipes his hand off on the sheets, and holds himself still, waiting. It’s almost surprising, with how easily Steve can toss Bucky exactly where he wants him that it’s so easy to get him to listen too. That all Bucky has to do is ask. When Steve isn’t deliberately being an ass.

Bucky breathes deeply, and the twitching subsides, and he loosens his grip on Steve’s hip.

“Alright,” Bucky says. “Alright. Fuck. Go to town.”

Steve shoves Bucky over onto his stomach and follows, kneeing his legs apart and stretching out on top of him. Son of a bitch is _heavy_ , he crushes the breath out of Bucky’s lungs before he thinks to get his hands down to support himself. Worth it. Now Steve can move around as much as he wants, yank at Bucky’s hips to get his angle right and drive into him with complete abandon. 

Bucky grasps at the sheets with his hands and his knees, trying not to slide away from where Steve put him but Steve’s a powerhouse and he’s nudging Bucky along the sheets fucking him. And Bucky _does not_ want to move. It’s pretty easy to figure out that what feels best for him feels best for Steve too, because when glorious pleasure spreads into him he hears Steve groaning behind him.  
Bucky’s body and his own enjoyment lead him to just the right place, to stay _Oh God_ right there, right there, _Jesus fuck_ and dig his knees into the mattress to hold it, feeling Steve speed up and hearing his breath begin to labor, well on his way.

One of Steve’s hands creeps over Bucky’s shoulder and lightly circles his throat. And Bucky’s heart stops dead in the middle of a thundering beat.

“Yes?” Steve asks.

Bucky shakes his head. No. No, that’s too far. Some other time, maybe. Some more secure day, when it’s been more than a few minutes since he’s been afraid.

Steve unwraps his hand. And Bucky’s heart restarts. Yeah, Steve can be trusted. He listens. Thank God.

Though it’s only a matter of time before Steve starts up biting him again. Steve already knows that’s okay. He starts a step back from the pain he knows he can cause, setting his teeth on Bucky’s skin and giving him a chance to respond, but that gets a positive response. Bucky arches his head to the side to give Steve better access and he takes advantage, biting hard and often and drinking in Bucky’s cries.

Until finally he slams home and he groans and his teeth wrench in Bucky’s shoulder. _Fuck_ he’s not gonna draw blood but he’s not trying too hard not to. The pain almost overtakes the sensation of his throbbing cock, sunk deep and stuttering with his hips, but it would take more than that. Feeling Steve come satisfies the straining urge in Bucky and leaves fulfilment. That’s _never_ gonna get old.

Steve shifts his weight and pulls out of him, and tips to one knee to roll off. Bucky reaches back and scrabbles at Steve’s shoulder, slipping on the sweat on his skin.

“Stay for a minute,” Bucky says.

“I can do that,” Steve says, and tips back to center. He blankets Bucky’s back, and feeling him still lets Bucky collect himself. He can relax. This time. Not the last time. Probably. Hopefully.

“Tell me you love me,” Bucky mumbles.

“I love you,” Steve says immediately.

Steve bends over Bucky’s back and presses his lips to Bucky’s temple, his cheekbone, the corner of his jaw.

“I’ve loved you for so long…” Steve whispers.

Bucky twists back over his shoulder to kiss him. He’d gone the whole time without tasting Steve’s mouth and can’t go another moment. Then he can let Steve move off and lie down, twine their limbs together and kiss him and kiss him and only stop when he absolutely has to breathe. And say, “I love you.”

Steve sighs, and smiles, and mumbles, “Glad to hear it.”

And they’re happy to lie in the quiet, and gather themselves from the disheveled heap they’d put each other in. But realization steals into Bucky of minor problems suffered by his partners in the past, that he’s suffering now. Lubrication and Steve’s come oozing across his skin. That’s uncomfortable. And he can’t help but chuckle a bit at it.

“What’s funny?” Steve asks.

Bucky opens his mouth. It should be obvious to Steve too. He’s a killer! Was. Was a killer. And that’s what’s funny. He _was_ terrifying. He _was_ deadly. He _was_ unstoppable. But he _is_ drowsy and dripping and fucked stupid by Captain America. He closes his mouth and shakes his head. Nevermind. He can keep that joke to himself. Steve doesn’t need the reminder.

“Nothing,” Bucky says. “Gonna ruin another set of sheets.”

“Complain. I dare you.”

“No, not complaining.”

He could use another shower but it’s not worth the time. The towel will do, to get him back into Steve’s arms. Laundry. In the morning. No more excuses. Steve tugs Bucky over after to lie down at his side.

“I know you already know this,” Steve says, “but you are one hell of a lay.”

“Thanks pal,” Bucky says. “I appreciate that.”

Silence. Bucky turns his head into a comfortable position on Steve’s arm and closes his eyes.

“Y’know you’re supposed to say something nice to me too,” Steve says, but Bucky can hear the smile on his face when he says it. Steve knows damned good and well he’s got Bucky wrapped around his little finger. Can’t let it go to his head.

“Huh?” Bucky says. “Oh, yeah. Top notch. Keep up the good work.”

“Fuck you,” Steve says, still audibly smiling.

“Done that. I’m going back to sleep.”

“Why do I love you, again?”

“Dunno. Cuz you know I’m fucking with you and I’ve never been happier in my life?”

Steve closes his arm around Bucky’s neck and kisses the top of his head. “Yeah. That’s probably it.”

“I love you,” Bucky says. “Let me sleep.”

Steve tightens his arm once to hold him and release him and doesn’t say anything else. Silence falls with warm darkness and a pleasant tiredness Bucky can take back into sleep. 

*

When Bucky wakes in the morning Steve is still in bed, on his back scrolling through his phone. No idea what time it is. The makeshift curtains were a good idea. The color of the light suggests late morning but it doesn’t really matter. Bucky yawns and stretches and Steve glances over, and sets his phone aside.

“Good morning,” Steve says.

“Yep,” Bucky says.

Bucky hoists himself up and flops back down draped over Steve’s chest, and closes his eyes again. No hurry. Yeah, he could get used to this.

“You slept like a log,” Steve says.

“Gosh I wonder why,” Bucky mumbles.

Bucky’s hand wanders in front of his face over Steve’s chest. The tips of his fingers find one of the lightly scabbed over lines from the bottle and follow it without thinking. Feels okay. Not warmer than the skin around it. He’ll be okay. 

Steve stops his hand. Pulls it up to kiss his fingers and hold it still, tucked under his chin. _Don’t do that_ and _Don’t worry about it_ that doesn’t need to be said and is understood.

“Got an ETA from Daisy,” Steve says. “Sixteen hundred.”

“Got it,” Bucky says.

Steve clears his throat, and licks his lips, and squeezes Bucky’s fingers.

“Buck?”

“Hm?”

“Earlier… when I put my hand on your throat?”

Bucky sits up. Steve blinks, and glances away from him around the room like he’s looking for the right words on the walls.

“Yeah?” Bucky says.

“Thank you for saying no,” Steve says carefully.

Bucky’s eyes narrow. That doesn’t sound right.

“Why?”

Steve takes another look around for the next thing to say. But when he finds it his eyes land on Bucky’s again.

“I’m glad I know you can.”

Bucky nods slowly.

“Is that why you did that?”

“No. Did it cuz I wanted to. Still gonna let you say no.”

“Oh. Then, you’re welcome.”

Steve runs his fingers over Bucky’s shoulder, over the indentations of his teeth. Yeah, that last one went pretty deep. It’s tender under his fingers, but the soft pain is a physical memory and sends chills down Bucky’s arm.

“You into all this or are you just humoring me?” Steve asks.

 _You kidding?_ Bucky thinks to say.

 _You can’t tell?_ Bucky thinks to say.

 _You think I’d beg for shit I don’t want?_ Bucky thinks to say.

“What’s the difference?” Bucky says.

Steve blanches. Oops, that wasn’t funny. Should’ve gone with something else. Bucky holds up his hands.

“Kidding.”

Steve still looks uneasy. And it occurs to Bucky that he probably trusts Steve more than Steve trusts himself.

“I’m kinda flying blind here,” Steve says. “Gonna need you to help me out.”

Yep. Bucky nods. Figured. Steve’s got a lot of power to go wrong with and occasionally shaky control over it. Just doesn’t scare Bucky. He’s not bulletproof but he knows what he can take and Steve hasn’t come close.

And if Steve’s not willing to guess, and he’s gotta hear things plain, Bucky can give him that.

“I’ll admit, it’s a new schtick for me too, but… ”

Bucky covers Steve’s hand with his own and presses his fingers down. He lets pain unroll in his shoulder and lets himself react so Steve can see it. His shoulder slumps into the sensation and his eyes flutter, and Steve’s mouth drops open. This is nothing, to get that reaction out of Steve. This is the lowest cost to pay for being close to him.

Probably shouldn’t put it like that… 

“God damn,” Steve mutters.

His hand slips up Bucky’s neck and cups his jaw. Hey, that’s still sore too. Bucky’s body is covered in memories of Steve, and maybe that’s not such a bad way to put it. Hadn’t been like this with anyone before, couldn’t bet if it would be in the future, but with _him_? It’s not a cost. It’s a benefit. Writing new stories on his skin and carving them in as deep as he wants.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “I’m into it. With you.”

“Okay,” Steve breathes. “I believe you.”

“But let it be known I’ll only beg if you’ll deliver,” Bucky says.

“Oh I will,” Steve says, and hauls him down to kiss him. Definitely seems genuine.

When they break apart Steve sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed.

“C’mon. Up. I’m starving.”

“Fine,” Bucky says.

Steve makes for the bathroom. Bucky stops at the laundry on the floor. Right. No more excuses. Ought to clean up the place before SHIELD comes back. Even if it wasn’t evidence against them it would be rude. It’s a stupid contrast, having guests in prison, but both have to be accounted for. 

He gathers the shed clothing around his feet. What did Steve say, washing machine through the pantry? On the way he almost walks past his shirt on the back of the couch. That’s been there long enough he’d forgotten about it. Into the pile, and yep, there it is, into the washer. Steve vacates the bathroom and Bucky sidles past him to pick up the rest of it.

“Hey, thanks,” Steve says.

“You weren’t gonna do it,” Bucky says.

Steve wisely turns away. Yeah, you walk away, Rogers. You’ve got no defense here.

The washing machine is complicated but self explanatory in the strange way that modern technology sometimes manages to be. It sloshes gently and Bucky can take the time to make himself presentable. There’s still a set of clean clothes in the duffle. Shaving uncovers blue shadows on the left side of his jaw, felt like that was gonna happen, but it doesn’t look too bad. Doesn’t look _exactly_ like Steve’s fingerprints. SHIELD would have to be very presumptuous to ask. Daisy won’t. Fitz-Simmons won’t. Maybe this new agent Mackenzie will, but he can sort that out if he has to. 

And Wanda… Steve said she wouldn’t read his mind without permission. Steve trusts her not to be nosy. But if she’s Steve’s friend, if she knows him well enough… Nah, nobody knows Steve _that_ well.

In the full light through the window in the kitchen Bucky can get a good look at Steve’s face. Steve hasn’t been in the habit of shaving while they’ve been here. And Bucky has never seen Steve with a beard before, and it’s only been a few days, but the shadows on Steve’s jaw are dropping hints that Bucky’s gonna like it. He smiles, and reaches up and scratches a finger backwards up the side of Steve’s face.

“Yeah, I’ll shave in a minute,” Steve says, and takes his hand away.

Oh no, stop him from doing that.

“I dunno,” Bucky says. “Scruffy suits you. Better than it did me.”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” Steve says.

Bucky circles his fingers in Steve’s palm, and steps closer to him, and aims for a seductive expression. Feels about right, in the muscles on his face. Now find the voice that goes with it.

“Maybe leave it for a bit? For me?”

Steve rolls his eyes.

“For you.”

Close enough. Victory. Bucky kisses his cheek, right in the middle of the potential beard, and moves off for coffee.

He notes what Steve’s got out, easy prep for lazy cooks provided by SHIELD in the form of frozen potatoes and chopped veggies and sausage links. Alright, looks like he’s got a plan. Bucky can leave Steve alone in the kitchen. That might take more getting used to than the rest of it. He takes his coffee out to the table. The set of habits that comprises domesticity is coming back like rules to a favorite old card game. So you can use the ace to start a run or end a run but you can’t straddle it, right? Sit at the table to eat, thank the cook, make conversation, clear up the dishes. It’s still there. Just took a couple of hands to bring it all back.

“Thanks,” Bucky says when Steve brings plates to the table.

“You’re welcome,” Steve says.

Bucky looks around the main room while they eat with the eyes he used at home to keep his indiscretions from his mother. Are there discarded clothes thrown about the place? Not anymore. Is the furniture out of place? Nope. Hair on scrunched cushions? No, they haven’t even touched the couch. They haven’t done much damage here. And SHIELD can’t possibly want to go into the bedroom while they’re here, will they? Probably not.

Trouble is they’re not letting Steve stay here to get laid. Coulson might be nostalgic about the colorful heroes but he’s got to be pragmatic as well. Word gets out that SHIELD is keeping a love nest for a Hydra asset and they’d force Coulson’s hand.

“So. We gonna play it cool in front of the agents?” Bucky says.

“Probably for the best.”

“Don’t want to get kicked out.”

“I’d love to see them try to get me out of here.”

“I wouldn’t!” Bucky says. “I’ll do the laundry but I don’t want to clean up that mess.”

Steve smiles, and tings his fork on the edge of his plate.

“Dishes, too.”

“Since you cooked,” Bucky says.

And when the plates are empty he does what he said. And puts the laundry in the dryer. Domestic bliss.

The empty stillness settles over him, the twitching lack of anything to do, but the sun streaming through the window looks mighty inviting and there’s exploration he hasn’t done yet. He can walk, for a ways. Fresh air. Sunshine. That’s the ticket.

“Y’know I haven’t gotten much sunlight since we’ve been here,” Bucky says. “Gonna take a look at the lake in the daytime.”

“Want company?”

“Might as well.”

Steve opens the refrigerator and comes out of it with a branch of grapes. Bucky arches an eyebrow and Steve shrugs.

“Feed the ducks,” Steve says.

“You wanna get a hot dog while we’re out? Maybe catch a movie?”

“No reason to be like that, Buck.”

Except it’s the only way he knows how to be. He picks the Dickinson up off of the coffee table, and toes into his shoes outside the door, and follows Steve down the hill. 

It’s hot and humid but breezy enough to force him to pull his hair back. Sunlight heats the metal of his arm to an uncomfortable degree on the stroll down to the lake. But there’s a tree near the shore and he sits under it in the shade. The metal cools to an almost natural temperature. Much better.

The lake is unnatural, a creation for the benefit of the Retreat, almost perfectly round and edged with stones. Can’t tell if it’s fed by the mountains or technology, but it’s clean. Rushes grow around it and he can hear, or at least imagine, the buzz of insect activity at the water’s edge. 

And Steve, bless his ridiculous heart, stands on the stones and tosses grapes to the ducks. They don’t scatter. They crowd around Steve, waddling and squawking. They know about people and are used to being fed. Must be a revolving door on this place.

It is beautiful. Bucky can appreciate Banner’s choice of location. There’s a hell of a view, down into the river’s valley and across miles of countryside without another building in sight. Streams feed into the river and thicken the heavy border with summer rain, cutting the land into puzzle pieces. Patches of pine stand out of fields of little yellow flowers. They don’t look familiar but he was never much of a botanist. And cottony clouds float through the ocean of pure blue sky. Surprised Steve didn’t bring his sketchbook. The view makes Bucky wish he could draw.

Though he is at the bottom of a hill, in an expanse of open grass and water against a noticeable tree. He tries, and it’s harder than he thought it would be to look down at the book instead of out across the grass, tracking vantage points and angles of entry.

_"Why do I love" You, Sir?_  
_Because—_  
_The Wind does not require the Grass_  
_To answer—Wherefore when He pass_  
_She cannot keep Her place._

Or he could talk to Steve. That’s always an option. Bucky tilts the spine of the book out at the mountains.

“Where are we?”

“You know, they never told me. Six hours on a quinjet from the city, so, probably still in North America?”

Bucky nods. Sounds about right. Doesn’t narrow it down much, though. North America isn’t short on mountains. These aren’t snow-capped and the air doesn’t feel thin with altitude. Maybe somewhere in the Carolinas? They’re so isolated it hardly matters.

_Because He knows—and_  
_Do not You—_  
_And We know not—_  
_Enough for Us_  
_The Wisdom it be so—_

“How long were you here before?” Bucky asks.

“Couple weeks.”

“Did you build a boat?”

Steve smiles, and takes a step back away from encroaching ducks. 

“No. Thought about it.”

Bucky nods. It had seemed like a pretty specific suggestion.

Steve’s smile drains slowly. 

“Got pissed and found a shovel and dug a big hole for something to do.”

Oh. He should’ve built the boat. SHIELD left him alone here for weeks after he came out of the ice? Surprised he didn’t rip the place down to its foundations. No wonder he dropped everything to be here with Bucky. Didn’t want to put him through the same thing.

Bucky looks around at the pristine grass.

“Where?”

Steve hooks his thumb over his shoulder.

“Over there somewhere. It was years ago.”

_The Lightning—never asked an Eye_  
_Wherefore it shut—when He was by—_  
_Because He knows it cannot speak—_  
_And reasons not contained—_  
_—Of Talk—_  
_There be—preferred by Daintier Folk—_

More ducks fly through the barrier, blurring the air around them, to join their fellows for Steve’s attention. They skid to a landing on the lake and paddle quickly across it, wobbling gently on their own ripples. Bucky stares.

“Got a question,” Bucky says.

“What’s that?”

“How do the ducks get out?”

“No idea,” Steve says.

And the breeze. How does the breeze get through?

“Forcefield only works on people?”

“And things.”

But not air currents. Interesting.

“Pattern recognition?” Bucky says.

“I don’t know.”

“I know you don’t. Just thinking out loud.”

Steve runs out of grapes. He drops the stems and holds up his empty hands to the ducks as if they could possibly understand what that means and turns around to the tree.

“Not thinking about escaping are you?” he says.

“When it’s so nice here?” Bucky says. “Nah, just curious.”

Steve strolls into the shade and sits down next to him at complete ease. Steve knows he’s not here for security. Not really. Just keeping Bucky company. Playing intermediary with SHIELD. And maybe figuring out exactly what he means when he says “Mine.”

“You can ask the agents when they get here,” Steve says.

“And make them think I’m trying to escape.”

“You ask them with that kid at the museum look in your eyes and I think they’ll believe you.”

Bucky smiles. He can’t help but be fascinated by SHIELD’s technical magic.

_The Sunrise—Sire—compelleth Me—_  
_Because He's Sunrise—and I see—_  
_Therefore—Then—_  
_I love Thee—_

“You see that exhibit at the Smithsonian?” Steve asks.

Speaking of museums.

“Yeah,” Bucky says.

Steve pulls his knees up to his chest, and brushes grass off of his pants.

“They’re gonna have to change it again,” Steve says.

“Kinda hope they don’t,” Bucky says.

The breeze kicks up and swishes in the needles above them. It’s a perfectly meaningless noise and Bucky takes the moment of silence to bask in it. Nobody needs to know. SHIELD needs to know, they’re his keepers, but nobody else needs to know. What happened to James Buchanan Barnes. That doesn’t need to be taught to schoolchildren on field trips. They can think he fell and died following Steve. _That_ was his choice.

“Were you in Mexico the whole time?” Steve asks warily.

“No. It was a long walk.”

“Right. Yeah, of course.”

Steve shakes his head once as if to dislodge a thought and leans back against the tree. Oh, that’s not what he meant. _Did you have any other missions between then and now?_ No. But Bucky’s distracted honest answer seems to have been enough. Steve runs the back of two of his fingers down Bucky’s arm. Maintaining. No, Bucky doesn’t do that anymore.

Still. Change the subject.

“You see anybody from the old days?” Bucky asks.

Steve sighs, and answers quietly.

“Peggy’s still hanging on. For now.”

“Shit. She’s gotta be…”

“Yeah.”

The air tenses around the conversation. Wrong change of subject. Carter’s almost a hundred years old. If she’s still around she’s a bent old woman, not the spitfire they both remember. They’d cheated time but they were the only ones. And there was no triumph in it.

_I felt my life with both my hands_  
_To see if it was there --_  
_I held my spirit to the Glass,_  
_To prove it possibler --_

Skip over dwelling on it. They can do that when they’re alone again. What else, what else? He’d stayed away from cities between D.C. and the beach but he hadn’t missed everything.

“Food’s better now,” Bucky suggests.

Steve nods. He takes a deep breath, and joins in.

“Movies are all in color. Unless they’re being artsy.”

Good. Good deal. Keep talking.

“Street lights are brighter,” Bucky says.

“Air conditioning,” Steve says. “So nice.”

The tension in the air unwinds. Just keep talking.

“Water’s cleaner,” Bucky says.

“Hell everything’s cleaner.”

“Shoes hold up longer.”

“Cars run better.”

That’s a problem. What fool let Steve drive? He’s one of nature’s pedestrians. He can about handle himself on a motorcycle but he’d been on bikes his whole life. On and off of them, crashing and scraping his knees. Somebody who didn’t know Steve let him drive. Somebody who didn’t know he had no idea what the fuck he was doing.

“Alkaline batteries,” Bucky says.

“Microwaves.”

“Neosporin.”

Steve pauses, and smiles a roguish smile, and brushes an invisible piece of nothing off Bucky’s pants just to touch him.

“Water based lubrication.”

Bucky laughs up at the sky. That didn’t take long. And Steve sure knows exactly what the fuck he’s doing with that.

Bucky wants to ask. What the hell has Steve been up to? _Who_ the hell has he been up to? If Steve had been prowling around in Brooklyn Bucky would’ve dragged it out of him, wheedled the details over as many meals as it took, even if he would’ve just been torturing himself in jealousy. 

Broadly speaking Bucky had considered himself a heterosexual with a confusing exception for Steve Rogers. Less confusing now. They’ve got common words for that now. In a bunch of languages. Still not sure along what lines Steve’s inclination lies. Gotta account for Carter. Steve and agent Carter had chemistry that lit bonfires and singed Bucky at a hundred yards. But beyond that, Steve hadn’t done enough prowling around for Bucky to discern.

Kid never figured out he could’ve. So what he was skinny, he’d always had those fucking eyes. Just didn’t know how to use them.

But damn he knows now. And it’s not the same asking that of a lover as it is of a friend. Bucky lost something, in the exchange. Worth the cost. Still.

_I turned my Being round and round_  
_And paused at every pound_  
_To ask the Owner's name --_  
_For doubt, that I should know the Sound --_

Steve stands and kicks gently at Bucky’s foot. “Gonna at least take a couple laps. Stretch my legs.”

“Like you need it,” Bucky says.

“Not the point.”

Steve crouches back down next to him to kiss him. It’s so easy, the kind of quick goodbye kiss you give someone you love just because you’re walking away from them for a bit but you’re going to see them again. Bucky returns it just the same. It’s almost like picking up where they left off. Though there was nothing to pick up.

“Don’t forget about May,” Steve says.

“Who ever could?”

Steve smirks, and strides off across the grass. Picks up into a run and disappears around the hill.

Bucky soaks up the sun and the poetry, the rustling grass and quacking ducks. Sitting there becomes a test against himself, alone and exposed. Steve didn’t know, but it’s alright. He won’t always have Steve close enough to jump in.

_I judged my features -- jarred my hair --_  
_I pushed my dimples by, and waited --_  
_If they -- twinkled back --_  
_Conviction might, of me --_

The forcefield is a comfort but it’s obviously not perfect. If the ducks can get out, can it be manipulated? Are they really safe? He picks up a rock from the ground and throws it at the barrier. It bounces back and drops into the lake, disturbing the ducks into flapping confusion. Reassuring. SHIELD is the best. Gotta trust them for now.

_I told myself, "Take Courage, Friend --_  
_That -- was a former time --_  
_But we might learn to like the Heaven,_  
_As well as our Old Home!"_

The height of the sun and his internal clock remind him of the time. He doesn’t have to hurry but he still beats Steve back to the cabin. And puts the laundry away. He takes the refilled SHIELD duffle into the one bedroom. Might as well admit it, they’re sleeping together. Might as well keep their stuff together.

The computer terminal rings in the unused bedroom. Just in time. He closes the door behind him, so Steve will know when he gets back, and taps the screen.

May appears. The wall behind her is different, plain steel this time. And her eyes are hooded, like she hasn’t slept since the last time he saw her. She’s taking time out of something for this. Bucky feels the sympathetic urge to make it worth her while.

“Good afternoon,” May says.

“It’s not bad,” Bucky says. “How’s yours?”

May sighs.

“Long. And not over yet. I know you’re expecting a team so whatever you can get through, we’d appreciate.”

He nods. Start with the Starks. Lots to tell there. Lots that SHIELD would appreciate.

“Yeah. So. December sixteenth, nineteen ninety one.”

May struggles with shock as he speaks, and can’t beat it. He knows. Car accident. In all the papers. Yeah. He knows. Not how it happened. Hydra woke him up to make a hit look like an accident. Because he could. And he did.

May asks for far more clarification this time. What was taken from Howard Stark’s trunk, who was it taken to, where. He answers. She asks him about the facility in Siberia, about the other iterations of the super soldiers Hydra created from what he stole. He answers. She asks if they’re still alive. He thinks so. She asks him if they’re an immediate threat. He doesn’t know. Hasn’t heard a peep about them since Steve and Natasha Romanov pulled Hydra out of the shadows in D.C. So, probably not.

And then she asks him about Grant Ward. And he has no information. Only heard the name from Steve, telling Bucky how he wound up at the Retreat. Ward must have been deep cover, if the Winter Soldier hadn’t been alerted about him before he’d been sent into D.C. He’d known Rumlow and his team, knew they were Hydra assets hidden in SHIELD, knew to fight with them and not against them. But he hadn’t been told about Ward.

“If there are other Hydra soldiers out there like you, Ward may go after them since he failed in getting you,” May says.

“I doubt he could find them,” Bucky says. “Even here it’d be easier to find me again. The only record of their location is pen and paper. Hydra wrote it in the same book where they kept track of the triggers. And if that had surfaced you’d know about it.”

“What else is in that book?”

He waves a hand vaguely.

“Names. Schematics. Other locations. Things they didn’t trust to digital. I think they kept most everything about me in it. I never got a good look at it. I could assume from seeing agents reading it or adding to it.”

“And you don’t know where it is now?”

“No. Wish I did. For my own sake as much as yours.”

May folds her hands on the desk in front of her.

“You know your identity wasn’t in the Hydra files released by agent Romanov,” May says.

“Yeah I kinda guessed that,” Bucky says. “Since nobody recognized me until you did.”

“Do you remember any other living agents from recent missions?”

“A few.”

He tells her. Rumlow scarpered after D.C., they already know about him, but he’s got other names. Other SHIELD agents he’d known to work with instead of against. May taps at her screen while he talks, checking his stories against a list he can’t see.

“Not all of these names were in agent Romanov’s files,” May says. “Thank you.”

“Happy to help, I suppose.”

May smiles half a smile.

“Ward would be furious,” May says, vindictively amused.

“Not just him,” Bucky says.

The rush of jets overhead interrupts the conversation. He looks away out the window, and he can’t see anything but that doesn’t mean much with SHIELD.

“There’s my other appointment,” Bucky says.

“I wish you luck,” May says.

“Yeah. Til next time.”

May deactivates her screen and Bucky’s goes dark. Steve is in the living room when he comes out, standing with the front door open, watching the field. A standard quinjet decloaks and lands smoothly. Awh, they’re not bringing the jumbo jet. He’d have liked to get another look at it.

“Here we go again,” Bucky says.

Steve lays a hand on his shoulder, and drops it when the ramp from the plane descends. Daisy and another tactical agent he doesn’t recognize, presumably the Mackenzie that Fitz-Simmons mentioned, exit first. Walking behind them is quite a lovely young woman who must be Wanda, and Fitz-Simmons bring up the rear with equipment strapped onto a rolling cart. It’s got clever chunky wheels and makes it across the gravel okay but Fitz stops stymied at the stairs.

“Welcome back, agents,” Steve says.

He takes the handle of the dolly from Fitz and lifts it with one hand up the stairs and over the doorstep. Bucky stifles a grin when Fitz’ face explodes in shock. That’s still fun. Watching people watching Steve.

“Thank you, Captain,” Fitz manages.

Bucky hangs back on the far wall as the agents file in. He wouldn’t blame them for being wary of him moving toward them, all things considered. So he doesn’t.

But Simmons smiles when she walks into the cabin, and she says, “Lovely to see you both again,” like she means it. Bucky returns the smile. Impossible not to.

“Agent Mackenzie,” Steve says, stepping up to the unknown and holding out his hand. Bucky can still see the agent’s eyes over the top of Steve’s head. That’s kinda funny. Man’s enormous. SHIELD pulled out all the stops on this one, didn’t they?

“Mack,” the agent says while he shakes. “It’s an honor, Captain.”

Mack has the slow smile and careful way of moving that enormous men often develop to put others at their ease. Doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous. He’s got a shotgun slung across his back. Didn’t even leave it in the quinjet. He nods to Bucky but doesn’t approach him.

“So it’s ‘Bucky?’” Mack says.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Been a long time since I was anything else.”

Fitz-Simmons busy themselves with their equipment, unstrapping cases and levering the lids off, tripping over each other in front of the fireplace to unship what they brought like a hypertechnological Christmas morning. One of the crates they manhandle off to the side and leave untouched after. Note that.

“Unfortunately we couldn’t bring Zephyr One with us today and the quinjet doesn’t have the power supply for our equipment,” Simmons says.

“But the generators mister Stark designed for this facility will be more than adequate,” Fitz says, stringing wires across the room.

“I’ll bet,” Bucky says.

“Oh, man,” Daisy says, “I do not miss that couch.”

Details slot together. She’s Inhuman. With power he has witnessed. SHIELD thought she needed to be contained and stuck her here too. Small world.

“Haven’t even tried it,” Bucky says. “Steve warned me.”

Wanda steps up to the couch and holds her hands out over it. It glows red. Wanda twists her fingers and the springs creak. The cushions straighten out. Daisy’s eyebrows jump to the top of her head.

And the tendrils of light twining between Wanda’s fingers are Hydra red, the threads that tore at Bucky in the chair. He balks and backs into the wall. He was right. What the hell is she?

“Huh,” Steve says to Wanda. “Should’ve called you earlier.”

Wanda lowers her hands.

“Yes, you should have,” she says.

“I don’t suppose I need to introduce you,” Steve says, waving his hand from Bucky to Wanda.

“Suppose you don’t,” Bucky mutters.

Steve does a well hidden double take looking at Bucky’s face, and draws his brow. Bucky shakes his head. Can’t explain right now. Too many people in the room. Can’t tell him that he’s seen that light before, felt its effects before, can’t tell Steve he’s got a bad feeling about this. It’s gone too far already.

“I have heard so much about you,” Wanda says to Bucky.

That accent, where is that even from? Where did Hydra find her?

“Same here,” Bucky says. “Lately, anyway.”

“You are in any story Steve tells from before he came out of the ice,” Wanda says. “Of course I never thought that I would have the pleasure.”

Somewhere vaguely Baltic. Unrecognizable. Somewhere he’s never been. Or it’s the overlayed accents of a mixed education. Always difficult to sort that out.

And pleasant. Precise, English isn’t her first language. Friendly. That’s a contrast to the red. 

“I don’t know about pleasure,” Bucky says.

“So,” Simmons says, standing with a vaguely head shaped cage of wires, “since our last meeting we hashed this together to prevent the implanted processors from accessing the memory centers of your brain. What miss Maximoff is here to do, as I understand it, is, um… I’m not sure I understand it.”

Wanda is looking curiously at Bucky. How would he know if she was reading his mind? Would he be able to tell? She tilts her head on one side and takes a step toward him.

[“Does anyone else in the room speak Russian?”] Wanda says, in that language.

Fitz-Simmons narrow their eyes at each other. Steve and Daisy exchange a similarly wary expression and Mack tracks between them, tensing.

“I don’t think so,” Bucky says, in English. He glances at Steve. Steve folds his arms on his chest, but he doesn’t interject.

[“Good,”] Wanda says. [“Then we can talk.”]

[“We don’t need to be keeping secrets,”] Bucky says, switching to the Russian even if it makes what he says a lie.

[“No secrets,”] Wanda says. [“But you might not want to share everything I see.”]

[“Are you reading my mind?”]

[“No. I don’t have to, to know that.”]

“Guys?” Steve says.

“Steve,” Wanda says. “You are asking me to invade his mind. I am not going to do that without at least talking to him first.”

Well. Whoever she is, she’s willing to put her foot down with Steve. And she’s calling him “Steve” and not “Captain Rogers.” That’s good to know.

Steve drops his arms and puts his hands on his hips. Whoever she is, Steve backs down when she puts her foot down. That’s very good to know.

[“Has anyone asked you if you’re okay with this?”] Wanda asks Bucky.

[“Not really.”]

She takes another step toward him.

[“I’ll have to look into your memories. I’ll have to see what Hydra did to you. I’ll have to see it and I’ll have to know even if I can’t change anything. Are you okay with that?”]

[“Don’t have much of a choice, do I?”]

[“You always have choices. In this case they’re just all terrible.”]

[“Thanks.”]

Fitz-Simmons focus on their wires, plugging and unwrapping and unplugging and arguing quietly. Daisy and Mack pick up on the fact that they’re not necessary to this exchange and do what they’re here to do. Wander a tiny patrol, keeping watch out the windows. Mack props the exterior door open. Smart man. Doesn’t want to be trapped in here with the Winter Soldier.

Steve just watches them.

[“We saw you once,”] Wanda says.

We. The Twins.

[“Was I awake?”] Bucky asks.

[“No.”]

[“Explains why I don’t remember you.”]

She takes another step toward him. She’s too close. Bucky’s shoulderblades dig into the wall.

[“I know what Hydra is capable of,”] Wanda says.

[“You would, wouldn’t you. You _volunteered_.”]

He spits the word and Wanda winces. She backs off a step.

[“I made terrible choices. I’m trying not to make more.”]

Wanda raises her hands, empty.

[“I wanted to help. I would’ve come even if it wasn’t Steve asking. I served Hydra. I just want to try to undo some of their damage.”]

The converted hero. That might have been a dig at him, hiding instead of fighting. That’s another issue for another day.

Wanda’s hands light from within, the red emerging and winding in her fingers. Bucky grits his teeth. He can already feel it in his ears, burning his eyes, just looking at it.

[“I know,”] Wanda says softly. [“I’m sorry. But please. I think we have a lot in common. Let me show you?”]

Wanda holds her hands still, cupping the glow in her palms. It rolls gently, as insubstantial as smoke, soft and controlled. That’s different. In the chair the light lashed out and tore. It didn’t look like it would blow away if he let out a deep breath.

Steve hasn’t moved. Doesn’t when Wanda raises her hands. When Bucky makes eye contact with him Steve just inclines his head slightly. Steve trusts her. He’s been fooled before but Steve’s a pretty good judge of character.

And Wanda is the one who finally taught Steve how to cook. Done something Bucky never could. She’s not just a coworker. She’s a friend. Steve’s friend. And a friend of his… 

[“Alright,”] Bucky says.

Wanda moves her hands slowly to the sides of his head and the room disappears into the red. It’s not painful, he feels it as motion and pressure in his head but it doesn’t burn. She is different. But still it pulls at his thoughts and opens his mind to her light, and she’s showing him… 

*

Pain. Rage. Fear.

A small child huddles under a bed with her brother enveloped with the crushing weight of fear. A target forms from a logo on the floor in front of them, a name, the source of the fear and focus of the rage. Strange men haul them out into unfamiliar bases and channel their rage with so much pain. And then give them power.

*

As quickly as he’d seen it, as clearly as he’d seen it all, it’s gone, like a train of thought lost to distraction. She pulls the memories back and leaves only the impression. The understanding. He’d seen it and he knows, but he can’t recall the details. Just pain. And rage. And fear.

And regret.

And he feels his own memories strung along the connection, reaching into history. Flashes of Steve’s skin, the quiet on the beach, the noise of the helicarrier. Cold and cold and decades of missions, splashes of blood and screaming and falling. And further back, deciding to follow him. 

Bucky can’t tell if she took the memories or gave them back, can’t see what she sees, but it doesn’t concern him. She was right. She understands. Hydra took her and they tortured her and they used her. Her regret is his. She’s kin.

And then Wanda is in his mind, less like she’s speaking than like she’s giving him a memory of her already having spoken, so long ago he can’t remember exactly what she said but got the gist. 

She’s asking him if he trusts her. And he does. He feels an impression like a nod in reponse, her understanding of his thoughts, then a grateful thanks and a gentle warning that she’s going to start moving around in his thoughts. He accepts, and he feels the thanks again. Jesus God telepathy is fucking weird… 

*

The threads wind into every avenue of his mind and memory, seeking themselves, the sewn up parts left behind by Hydra. They touch, she found them, and the impressions seep out into his consciousness. Directives. Intel. Skills and languages, maybe leave those alone, those are useful. 

Then he feels the red spark against wires that won’t let it touch, that repel Wanda’s intrusion with a force that makes his eyes itch. The tendrils slip away. The light recedes and rewinds and brings him forward again to the present.

*

He opens his eyes. He’s sitting on the floor. The room swims back into focus and his body settles like stepping off a roller coaster at the fair. Wanda is crouching next to him and she touches his arm. His right arm, and he feels it. She steadies him as he stands. She’s something else but her touch is human.

“Holy shit,” Bucky mutters.

“Wanda?” Steve says.

“It’s alright,” Wanda says. “I think I understand.”

Bucky wipes a hand down his face and looks around the room. Fitz-Simmons have small devices ranged on the coffee table, and they’re futzing with their tablets with half their attention, the rest still on Bucky and Wanda. Mack stands in the doorway to the outside, and Daisy in the hallway to the bedrooms. They’d situated themselves when Wanda touched him. Blocking the exits. Good.

“Is there anything you can do?” Steve asks.

“I believe so,” Wanda says. When Bucky is secure on his feet she turns to Fitz-Simmons.

“I can’t interact with the technology,” Wanda says. “If I am prepared when it is initialized I should be able to stop the commands from taking hold in his mind. But I can’t remove them entirely.”

“We’ll be working on that,” Fitz says to Wanda.

“You’ll be more comfortable lying down,” Simmons says to Bucky.

“Good thing you fixed the couch,” Bucky says, giving Wanda a weak smile. They’d understood each other in the darkness but it’s still worth it to show her. She shrugs, but returns the smile.

Bucky sits on the couch and Simmons attaches the little blinking devices to his arm and the back of his neck and the sides of his head. Fitz clamps the wires to connections in one of the crates. They’re decorating the tree for their Christmas. Heavens above.

“What we’ll be trying to do is sever the connections between the processors that control your arm and those that contain Hydra’s triggers,” Simmons says.

“But failing that we’ll shut down the entire system,” Fitz says. “If at any time your arm requires repair or even if you’re undergoing a routine exam…”

“With anyone other than us…” Simmons interrupts.

“Well yes, now we know what not to do, but any other technician might…”

“With more time to research we might be able to rebuild the network…”

“But right now even that research would be risky…”

“Whenever you can leave here and come back to base with us…”

“We’ve already started designing a replacement…”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, alright?” Bucky says quickly to make the chatter stop. “Deactivate the system if you have to. I’ll live without the arm.”

“You’re sure?” Simmons says.

“Yes. I’m sick of this.”

“Okay…”

Wanda pulls one of the chairs away from the table and sits at the arm of the couch and leans over it toward Bucky.

“Tell me what happened the first time,” Wanda says.

“Um… It hurt,” Bucky says. “Started in my arm, spread from there. Then felt like there was a voice in my head speaking the words.”

“That was the activation of the network,” Simmons says.

“I cannot apologize enough,” Fitz says.

“You already have,” Bucky says.

“You heard the words?” Wanda asks.

“Basically,” Bucky says.

“From the computer network?” Wanda asks Simmons.

“Yes,” Simmons says.

“Alright,” Wanda says.

Simmons lifts the cage of wires, and holds it up over the top of Bucky’s head.

“Wait,” Wanda says. “You said that will prevent the triggers from activating in his memory?”

“Yes,” Simmons says. “We determined the frequency of the link and this was designed to interfere with those signals.”

“The triggers were shielded in his memory by the technology,” Wanda says. “I could not see them. But if the technology brings them up while I am watching his mind then I will. And if I see them I can break the links to the words. So that if they are spoken they won’t trigger a reaction.”

“Brilliant,” Simmons says. “We hadn’t sorted that part out yet.”

“So all we’re dealing with is the network of processors,” Fitz says, taking the wires back from Simmons and dropping them into the case.

“Let me get this straight,” Steve says. “You’re going to do the same thing you did two days ago, and hope Wanda can stop it?”

“That’s plan A,” Fitz says, glancing at Daisy and Mack. Plan B.

“I can,” Wanda says. “I know how Hydra manipulated memories in agents under their control. It was part of how I was trained to use my powers.”

She meets Bucky’s eyes, and he can see it’s true. If she hadn’t jumped ship, if he hadn’t run, she would’ve been controlling him some day. It’s a future they can both be glad they’ve avoided.

“Well then,” Simmons says. “We’re set up here. So, if you would?”

Bucky lies back on the couch. Fitz-Simmons retrieve their ubiquitous tablets and, to his small dismay, Daisy lifts her wrists to turn her palms out.

Steve stands over the back of the couch, and he doesn’t reach out for him, but he really looks like he wants to. Playing it cool.

“See you soon,” Steve says.

“Yeah,” Bucky says.

Wanda sets her hands on the arm of the couch on either side of Bucky’s head.

“I apologize for this,” Wanda says. “It might be fairly unpleasant.”

“What a surprise.”

“Try to relax.”

Wanda puts her hands on his shoulders before she reactivates the glow.

[“You won’t be any danger to them. I know how awful it sounds but I’ll have control of your mind. It will be alright.”]

[“You’d better be right.”]

“Fitz?” Simmons says. “I’m getting readings here.”

“I’ve got connectivity on my end,” Fitz says. “Go.”

Electricity crackles in his arm. Flashes of heat streak upward, catch through wires and race through his head, down his spine. And then darkness closes down, scored in red.

*

The struggle between technology and magic aches. Signals from Fitz-Simmons equipment strain in electrical fury on the inside of the doors to memory, and Wanda’s strength stands on the outside. Occasional jolts make his arm twitch, and whispers escape from the locked memories, the triggers hiding behind the doors Fitz-Simmons is knocking on and Wanda is barring. He’s watching a war in red that only he can see and praying that the right army wins. When he hears a whisper he feels an outline of its placement, sees the triggers as locations in his own mind like Wanda is marking them on a map to find later but quieting them for now.

He has no sense of how long the battle lasts. Wanda spreads thin, tracking every blast from the technology, creating more and more and more of her weaving tendrils and tying his mind together. Her light dims but it’s everywhere, responds to every impulse, and he knows that every bit of red he can see is her.

After an instant or an eternity the zaps from Fitz-Simmons equipment stop, and all he feels is Wanda, roving, revisiting the mapped connections. She gives him a compassionate warning, laced with remorse, before she draws back the far reaching threads of her power and focuses. Under Wanda’s prodding the doors spill open into her hands. Bucky tenses for the fight. But his eyes are closed. He’s not moving. He’s watching, but he’s not activated. He’s not going to hurt anyone. This is only going to suck for him. The rest of them are safe.

*

_Longing_

He’s sitting on a park bench. He has an ice cream cone in his hand. And a skinny teenaged Steve sits next to him. Steve leans over and takes a bite out of Bucky’s ice cream, even though he’s got his own. Bucky looks down into a pair of the bluest eyes he’s ever seen, shining in a summer sun, and the softest mouth grinning with a ring of vanilla around it before his tongue slips out to wipe it off. And he can’t remember _ever_ wanting to kiss someone so bad.

Was that the first time? The origin point of the longing? Must be.

Wanda’s red weaves into the memory, twining into the thread tying this piece of himself to the piece Hydra created. A forced connection that could be unraveled, with just a moment…

The thread tightens and snaps. And Bucky senses satisfaction from Wanda. That connection is broken. “Longing” is just a word again. And she moves on.

*

_Rusted_

His left shoulder is a twisted mass of pain. Tearing nerves burn and he sees the arm held in contraptions above him, sheared metal at the failed weak points exposing the wires beneath. He can’t move it. Can’t move at all. He can’t even scream.

Men in pristine white coats hold clipboards and lean over his arm, inspecting the damage and taking notes. Arnim Zola tilts one of the clipboards toward himself and glances at it.

“Try again,” Zola says.

Snap.

*

_Furnace_

“Heat’s out again,” Steve says. It’s the middle of the night but he’s still dressed. It’s freezing.

“Here,” Bucky says. “Oven still works.”

Bucky cranks it up and opens the door. Warmth pours out into the kitchen and he tosses the cushions from the couch onto the floor. Steve sits down on them, and pulls at Bucky’s hand for him to sit down too.

“Just till you fall asleep, Steve,” Bucky says. And wishes he didn’t mean it.

Snap.

*

_Daybreak_

He opens his eyes in freezing cold, looking at a little window encrusted in ice. The door to his chamber hisses open. Steam pours out and light pours in.

“Hello, Soldier,” Zola says.

Snap.

*

_Seventeen_

“You can’t join up!” Steve wails.

“I can! My dad’ll sign the papers!”

“But you can’t g-”

Steve can’t finish saying “You can’t go.” 

Instead he says, “Just, finish school you bonehead! Come on, one more year. You can graduate. You’re just not trying.”

But he wanted to say, “You can’t go.”

“Fine, Steve.”

Snap.

*

_Benign_

He’s on his hands and knees vomiting on a concrete floor, acid etching his throat. The copper smell of blood on his face assails him. It’s not his. Screaming winds in his ears. It’s not his. But the blood and the screaming belong to the same person. They’d sent in a new agent. Just a kid. Just a fucking kid. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. It was just a fucking kid!

“You’re disappointing me,” Zola says.

“Fuck you,” he says.

Zola turns away.

“Wipe him,” Zola says.

Snap.

*

_Nine_

“You’re back late,” Bucky says.

“Yeah,” Steve says. He’s carrying the pieces of his easel. And his eye is puffed almost shut. The worst he’s looked since grade school.

“Who was it?” Bucky says.

“Lay off,” Steve says.

“Told you if you’d quit walking home down the docks this wouldn’t happen.”

“I shouldn’t have to!”

“You think they’re learning a lesson punching you?!”

Steve pulls himself up and sets his jaw. And Bucky relents. Steve would paint a target on his own face and take all the fists the world can throw at him to make one stupid, stupid point.

“At least get the steak out of the icebox. When your eye feels better we’ll have it for dinner.”

Snap.

*

_Homecoming_

“Bucky?”

He’s staring at a blank ceiling, strapped to a table, mumbling name rank and serial number until he hears his name. And recognizes the voice.

“Oh my God…” the voice says.

Yes. He knows that voice. That voice is joy. That voice is love. But it can’t be. That voice is at home.

The straps around him break. He doesn’t see how.

“Is… Is that…” Bucky mutters.

“It’s me. It’s Steve,” the voice says. And the face over him looks right.

“Steve?”

“Come on.”

Steve pulls him bodily to his feet. At least, Steve’s face, on an immense slab of a man.

“Steve…”

Steve lays his hand on the side of Bucky’s head. He doesn’t have to reach up to do it.

“I thought you were dead.”

Bucky leans against the slab, starts at the bottom, tracks to the top, finds Steve’s face under a helmet at the summit, and blinks hard.

“I thought you were smaller.”

Snap.

*

_One_

“You can’t hold out. It’s just a matter of time, mister Barnes,” Zola says.

The man in front of him isn’t Zola. Zola is speaking from behind the chair he’s tied to. The man in front of him is nobody massaging his fists. Matches the pain in his face.

“You think your friend is coming back?” Zola says. “Is that what you’re waiting for? He’s never coming back. He’s gone. Captain America killed himself to stop us.”

No. Can’t be true. He’d know, if Steve was dead.

The operative hits him again and his cheek tears on his teeth, blood spilling down his lips.

“And he failed. You’re still here. And he’s dead.”

How long has he been here? How long has Steve had to find him this time? He can’t be dead. Can’t be dead. Can’t be. But he’s not here.

“You’re alone, mister Barnes.”

He is alone.

Snap.

*

_Freight car_

“Bucky!” Steve screams.

Bucky is barely holding on to the blasted out wall of the train. Wind whips past his face and his hand slips.

“Grab my hand!”

He tries to. He reaches for Steve. Captain America reaches back. But the rail under his other hand separates from the wall.

“No!”

And then he’s holding air. And falling with the snow.

Snap.

*

Darkness closes down, outlined and occasionally struck across in red. Wanda taps on the doors, checking her work. But they hold. Her prodding doesn’t activate anything in his arm. Her quiet self-satisfaction suffuses his mind. She did what she’d intended to do. He can’t be triggered with the words anymore. Can’t be picked up and used anymore. Thank God.

Bucky savors the darkness. Please let those memories settle again. Please let Wanda take those back like she took back her own. Please don’t leave them seared across the inside of his eyes before he has to open them… 

He feels Wanda’s recognition. And the gentle tug of red as she puts the memories to rest, in the distant place where memories go when you haven’t thought about them in a while. Accessible but not immediate. He relaxes into relief, and then Wanda speaks to his mind again.

Fitz-Simmons still has work to do on the machinery. She has to keep control over him, just in case. But she slips out into his memory, and opens a door that hadn’t been locked, a real memory untouched by Hydra, and pushes him gently through. He’ll be safe there, while the agents work. He feels thankfulness, and the impression of a nod again in response before her presence fades.

*

From the darkness a room resolves. Dingy plaster walls and hazy windows nicked and scratched over from years of poor cleaning, with snow drifting down outside in evening darkness. Against the wall are books and rusted tins of useful things and a record player on shelves banged together from discarded two-by-fours. And milk crates on the floor full of records.

He’s sitting on a couch, worn green and hand repaired in places to keep the stuffing inside. A duffle bag is on the floor next to his feet. The khaki Army type. Closed. And the floorboards under it don’t meet at the edges. There’s dust and bits of fluff from socks caught in the warped grain.

Home.

He looks down at his own hands. They’re both flesh, the two he was born with. And he’s in uniform. No sergeant stripes yet, that narrows it down, but not much. How long had he been a specialist? What day is it? What did Wanda do?

Keys clatter in the lock outside and the door opens. Steve walks through it, shaking snow off of his coat. Bucky’s coat. Bucky’s old coat, that he’d passed down when the National Guard gave him a better one. It almost reaches the floor on Steve. He looks about twenty, but it was hard to tell with Steve. He always looked younger than he was.

Steve looks up and sees Bucky sitting on the couch. His face opens in joyous surprise and Bucky has swallowed ice, the smile freezing in his stomach.

“Heya, Buck! I thought you were coming back tomorrow!”

“Caught an early train,” he hears himself lie as he gets to his feet. And he knows what day it is.

“It’s good to see you,” Steve says, bringing that beaming smile across the room. He rises up on the balls of his feet to wrap his arms around Bucky’s neck and hug him. Bucky’s arms twine around his waist and lift him nearly clean off the floor. He’d only been in the field for a month but Steve was always this happy to see him.

“Yeah, you too,” Bucky says. Remembers himself saying.

He’d hitchhiked home. Even in the snow it was worth it. It was faster. The uniform had advantages. He’d wanted to get home earlier than his mother expected him. Wanted one evening where Steve was the only person in the city who knew he was there.

The country was talking about war. His C.O.s were talking about promoting him again. He’d seen bullets in Europe staring him down and couldn’t get home fast enough. Couldn’t get Steve in his arms fast enough.

He feels the end of the embrace in Steve’s arms and his settling back on flat feet, and he pulls Steve closer and doesn’t let it happen. Remembers that happening before. He’d kept his arms tight and lined words up in his head, because he’d decided. 

This hadn’t been much of a special day. But it was the day he’d decided that he was just gonna tell him. If he was going down thousands of miles from home he couldn’t do it without telling Steve something, telling him _everything_. How much he missed him and why, how much he wanted him, how much he loved him. Damn the consequences, even if it got him a dishonorable discharge it’d leave him home with Steve. 

Steve tilts back and looks at him quizzically. That, he’d done, when this really happened. And Bucky had lost his nerve.

What would it do to him? What would it do to Steve’s life? He didn’t know it then, that Steve spent nights aching and longing the same as he did. Didn’t believe it. He couldn’t put all that on Steve when he didn’t know. He’d looked down into that searching face and given up to spare him. And that had been the end of it.

But he knows now. He tries. He says, “Steve…” and hears it. He hadn’t said anything before.

“What is it, Buck?” Steve says. He hadn’t said anything before either. This is new.

Bucky feels control over himself. He doesn’t have to just watch this like he’d watched the connections before. This is more than a recollection. This is a dream.

Wanda has no idea what she’s done.

Memories fill in. What he could’ve said, what he would’ve said, what would’ve been right at the time.

“I hitchhiked home,” Bucky says. “I wanted to see you.”

“I would’ve been here tomorrow.”

“Yeah, at breakfast with my folks. Steve… I…”

This is ridiculous. Steve is in the Retreat. He knows. They’re something, they’re together, _finally_. This is just a dream.

So why is it so fucking hard?

He spreads his hands on the small of Steve’s back and his thumbs still curl around his waist. God was he ever so small… 

“I just wanted to be with you,” Bucky says, so quietly he’s not sure even Steve heard but at least it means no one else could.

He’s imagining all this. He’s not rewriting history. But he’s got both hands, _both hands_ that can _feel_ the soft weave of Steve’s shirt washed half to oblivion and the curve of his waist and Steve isn’t backing off. Steve shifts closer to him, fitting himself into the space between Bucky’s arms, and drops his voice to the same whisper.

“What d’you mean?”

Steve’s asking a question he already knows the answer to. Or thinks he does, hopes he does, and it shows. Steve is blinking more than he needs to and breathing shallow, he _knows_ but he needs to hear Bucky say it. And his _eyes_ are the _same_.

Maybe Bucky is only imagining it this way because he knows now, that they’d been wanting each other the whole time and been too scared to say, wasted this and so many other opportunities. Maybe it wouldn’t have been anything like this, if he’d done things differently. But he can settle his palms on Steve’s hips like he’s _here_. He can fucking _feel_ him. And Bucky decides, if he’s stuck in this dream while Fitz-Simmons works, he’ll take it as far as it’ll go.

“You know what I mean,” Bucky says, and leans so far down to press his lips to Steve’s.

This isn’t in his memory. But he could see how dry and chapped Steve’s lips were when he walked in the door and now he can feel it. Cold, Steve was always so cold, but Bucky’s whole face is hot with his blush and Steve’s lips warm under his. Part slowly like he’s not sure to admit the tip of Bucky’s tongue and then open fast when he feels it. He clamps his arms around Bucky’s neck and chokes down a moan to a little desperate noise through his nose. Steve still tastes like summer. And kisses like it’s the last one he’ll ever get.

Wanda is a _goddess_.

If Bucky can imagine being interrupted, and he can, then maybe they will be. He’s more than capable of ruining his own fantasies. So he unwinds his arms, and pulls Steve’s down from his shoulders. When Steve looks at him in confused betrayal he kisses Steve’s hands to tell him he’s coming back, and turns to the record player. The neighbors are used to their music at all hours and everyone’s pulling doubles around here. He remembers how it works and drops a record onto it even though his hands are shaking. Trumpets blare and it’ll cover some, if they’re careful.

Steve grabs the lapels of Bucky’s jacket and hauls him around square, glaring questions at him. 

“If this is a joke, I’m gonna kill you,” Steve says.

“No joke,” Bucky says. “Should’ve done this ages ago.”

The lined up words spill out in a rush. He keeps his voice down but he’s got to speak. Maybe he’ll remember this, when he wakes up. Maybe he’ll tell Steve, in the Retreat. Maybe it’ll still mean something.

“You’re it,” Bucky says. “You’re it for me, Steve. Tell me to go to hell, tell me you don’t feel the same, tell me the truth whatever it is. But you got me in the worst way and I swear to God you’re the only one there’s ever gonna be for me. You gotta know that.”

Steve inhales sharply like that shocked him where the kiss hadn’t, but he yanks down on Bucky’s jacket to kiss him again and it must have been a pleasant shock. He feels the same. Bucky knows he felt the same. It’s still satisfying, of something long held, to be able to watch his young and ardent reaction. Even if this is just a dream it’s a damned good one.

“Bucky…” Steve says, “God I tried so hard not to want you.”

“I know,” Bucky says. “How’d that work out for you?”

“Not looking good,” Steve says. “Don’t know why I even tried.”

Bucky grabs two of Steve’s belt loops in his fingers and pulls him over to the couch, sits down and directs Steve onto his lap. Steve straddles his legs and dives into him with deep and unpracticed kisses that make a mess of the whole thing, but Bucky can hold all of Steve in his arms at once and that’s what matters. This couch was low, he remembers, it is low, Bucky’s feet are on the floor and his knees are up under Steve’s ass, pitching him forward and keeping them pressed together. Steve is all over cold, gotta get him a new coat. Bucky wills the warmth in both of his hands into Steve’s skin to trade it for the chill on his arms and his back and every _sweet_ inch that there is of him and Steve gasps at his touch.

He reaches between them and palms Steve’s erection through his pants. Steve whimpers and rocks into his hand.

“You gotta be kidding,” Steve says.

“Not if you aren’t,” Bucky says.

“You really wanna…”

“God yes,” Bucky says.

Bucky tugs Steve’s shirt out of his waistband and reaches for the buttons at his neck. Steve’s jaw drops, but he catches up quick, flicking his belt and his fly open and standing to shed his clothes when he’s free enough. Bucky can only watch the man hastily revealed in front of him. Captain America would never believe him, if he told him how he’d lusted after that skin, knowing so much of the man underneath. He’s pale and soft but he’s solid iron to his core, and when he’s standing naked but for his socks - it’s fucking freezing, can’t begrudge him that - he pulls himself up defiant like he’s expecting Bucky to change his mind now he’s seen and battening down for the rejection. _God_ is Bucky looking forward to proving him wrong.

Tendrils of red intrude on the edges of his vision. Sensation in his left arm fades and the room blurs, his vision of Steve fading into shadows. 

No! Fuck no! No, Wanda can’t do this! He doesn’t care if it’s not real, he’s _got_ to have that body under his hands _just once_!

And Bucky’s resistance forms a thought as clear as a word, screaming at Wanda.

_NO!_

The red light recedes. The room refocuses and his left arm returns. And he has the sense, though she doesn’t intrude with words, that Wanda heard him. That she’s letting him stay.

Steve’s shoulders sag, and he pulls his arms up to cover himself.

“You alright, Buck?” Steve says hesitantly. “You looked real scared there for a second.”

Oh shit no, she might have ruined this anyway. Oh, no, smile, wave a hand, reach out for him, say the right thing, fucking say the right thing.

“It was nothing,” Bucky says, and smiles, and scoots to the edge of the couch so he can reach to lay his hands on Steve’s arms and squeeze gently. “I’m fine. Just sick of looking at you without touching you.”

Steve tries to smile, and summon the defiance again. “Well, here I am. There ain’t much of me.” 

He straightens, and wraps his hands around Bucky’s forearms. “But you can have it if you want it.”

Oh how does he want it. Bucky releases Steve’s arms and lays his hands out on his chest. Steve’s right, in a way. There’s not much of him. Bucky’s hands cover nearly half as much as his shirt. But _so_ wrong where it counts. Steve is _terrified_ , his heart is hammering and he’s shaking under Bucky’s hands, but he’s still standing here. Facing it down.

“You have no idea,” Bucky says.

And tries to show him. The warmth of his hands is the least he can give for everything he’s going to take and he keeps them in solid contact with Steve’s skin, taking his spindly shoulders and protruding ribs and the contours of his stomach. Steve grips Bucky’s arms but he doesn’t try to stop his hands, and his shaking subsides. Bucky has proved that he wants him, anyway. Can’t keep it off his face, he’s panting over parted lips, and Steve’s starting to believe it.

Bucky leans forward and presses his lips between his hands, and shudders feeling delicate skin. He wasn’t sure where this would run out, where guesses and deductions would fail and he’d be unable to fill it in, but it isn’t here. He can kiss, all the lines of Steve’s body he can reach. And he can hear Steve’s breath hitch whenever his lips connect.

Steve takes Bucky’s face in both of his hands and tilts it up to look at him. And gazes into his eyes, in silence, for a moment. Explores his face, from his hairline to his chin. He’s trying to prove it’s real. Bucky wishes like hell that it was.

He leans back onto the couch, and pulls at Steve’s hips. Steve topples forward and catches himself on his hands on the back of the couch over Bucky’s head.

“What the hell?” Steve says.

“Trust me,” Bucky says.

Because if he slouches down, which he does, he can hold Steve’s hips over his face and take his cock into his mouth. And make Steve bite his own forearm to keep from shouting.

He doesn’t have enough data on Steve’s cock to _know_ if anything changed. More than zero stolen glances but not enough to be sure if he’s imagining right, if he hadn’t really changed much. But he feels the same in his mouth, thick and heavy and so much warmer than the rest of him, like all of his heat had gathered there. He remembers what Steve had him do, remembers filling his mouth and drawing back and stroking with his tongue. And he opens his eyes, watching Steve’s disbelieving pleasure, letting Steve watch his.

He hears Steve’s breathing stutter, hears the hollow sounds in his chest, and slows. He’s not gonna hurt him, not for all the world. This isn’t worth it if it’s gonna leave Steve gasping for air he can’t take in and Bucky praying that this won’t be the time his heart just stops. He can’t even watch, can’t even dream about it knowing Steve is really safe.

But Steve digs his fingernails into Bucky shoulder, and he says, “Don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop.”

And of course he would. Steve doesn’t care. He will kill himself for this. And hate Bucky til the end of his days if he takes that choice away from him.

Bucky doesn’t stop. And he isn’t at it long before Steve slams his eyes shut and taps on Bucky’s shoulder and groans and spills out down his throat. Makes sense, he doesn't have the stamina from the serum yet. Makes sense. But he's not disappointed, watching Steve come is so fucking glorious he doesn't care when it happens.

“Sorry,” Steve whispers.

“For what? You flatter me,” Bucky says.

Steve’s legs give out and he crumples down onto the couch. “Jesus, Buck. Well I guess you’re serious.”

“As a heart attack,” Bucky says. “Which you about had and about gave me.”

“I was fine.”

“You’re a shitty liar.”

“I was fine enough.”

“There ya go.”

“We don’t have to be done,” Steve says. “Do you want me to… What do you want me to…”

Maybe he’d changed more than Bucky remembered. Took a few years of Captain America to work up the confidence. Ah well. 

But he’s got knowledge now. He’s got an edge. He’s building the dream from what he knows and what does he know of what Steve wanted at the time?

“What have you imagined?” Bucky says, anticipating the answer.

Steve climbs over to him and kisses him and bears him down on his back. He hikes Bucky’s jacket up and unfastens his pants, working blind kissing him, and frees his cock from its imprisonment. And those long thin fingers, cool and soft, wrap around him.

Awh, fuck, this is a mess in the making. “The uniform,” Bucky hisses. Can be cleaned but it’s a bitch.

“Get it off, then,” Steve says. “Gotta let me see you too.”

Steve sits back to give him space to undress. He almost rips the damn thing getting it off so fast. Steve watches with his upper teeth digging into his lower lip, and when the uniform is tossed on the coffee table Steve vaults over to lay out over him and bring every _possible_ part of them into contact at last. Just that body, just that skin, Jesus Steve might not even have to use his hand. Bucky’s had wet dreams and Steve is laying between his legs and maybe he could come just thinking about it, even if he couldn’t feel Steve’s stomach rubbing against his cock. But he can.

And he doesn’t get the answer to that. Steve finds his cock with his hand again. He doesn’t know so much of what he’s doing, here, now, even Bucky’s dreams are tied to some reality apparently, but it doesn’t matter a whole lot. It’s gonna be enough, anything he does is gonna be enough, _Christ_ his hand is so soft.

Steve covers Bucky’s mouth with his other hand. Oh, shit, he hadn’t noticed how much noise he’d been making. And some of Steve’s confidence was innate, God damn, he knew that. Captain America wasn’t a new person. Just Steve, with enough room to be Steve in.

And he grabs Steve’s wrist and yanks his hand aside so he can kiss him when he comes, broadcasting desire on all frequencies, and hearing the same satisfied sigh he’s come to know. That couldn’t have come from nowhere, their echoing gratification in each other. They’d shared every pain and victory before.

Bucky sags back depleted. Steve takes his own shorts off the floor to wipe off, spares Bucky’s uniform. Isn’t he the conscientious one. He shoves Bucky over and lies half on him and half next to him on the couch. Bucky wraps his arms around his shoulders, and holds as tight as he dares.

“Buck?” Steve says.

“Yeah?”

It takes Steve a moment to say anything else. He grabs Bucky’s hand, and kisses the back of it, and doesn’t look up at him.

“Now what?” Steve says, in such misery Bucky almost forgets it’s a dream and starts to cry.

Cuz that’s the thing, isn’t it? This would’ve been wonderful. Joy and love and satisfaction, when they were alone. But in the morning? Getting up and going to work every day hoping nobody found out?

It’s almost fraud that he doesn’t have to deal with that. He got this and doesn’t have to face the consequences. Steve doesn’t either, not really. They’ve got their own to suffer through. Not sure the future has better ones, all things considered. But they’re the real ones.

“Now I think I gotta wake up,” Bucky says.

“What?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be seeing you real soon.”

He kisses the part of Steve’s hair, and runs his hands through it. Why is he imagining that it’s a little finer now? He’ll never know.

“I love you,” Bucky says.

Steve tightens his arms, and buries his face in Bucky’s neck.

“I love you, Buck.”

Bucky turns his mind back to Wanda, looking for her in his thoughts, and finds her presence. Red threads wrap around him and pull. The room disappears into the light, and into darkness.

*

Wanda doesn’t put those memories away. Bucky keeps them, the sense of Steve’s body in his arms even as his left arm disappears. The hiss of snow dopplers away in the transition, replaced by the thrumming of rain. The dry chill of the poorly insulated apartment becomes the cloying heat of the Retreat, and he opens his eyes.

Steve towers over him. Ain’t that a kick in the teeth.

“Bucky?”

He nods. Yeah, that’s his name. Just don’t ask anything more complicated.

Simmons takes over his field of view.

“How do you feel?”

Like that.

He tries to answer Simmons and it just isn’t happening. He can’t tell her about what he’d seen. And no summary will suffice. He starts sentences with syllables that go nowhere and her pretty little face creases in concern.

Wanda isn’t asking stupid questions. Wanda knows. And she looks spent, like she’s been on twenty-four hour duty without coffee. She takes her hands back and slumps into the chair, blinking slowly and flexing her fingers. Bucky owes her _big_ for this. 

He tries to sit up. The commands are sluggish moving through a body not sure yet what decade it’s in, or what season. He sends signals to both arms to bend at the elbows and lever him up and finds only one responding. His left is dead weight and forces a serious rebalancing of a simple action. Without mechanical assistance the full weight of it hangs painful on the bones of his shoulder.

He does the only thing he can do. He reaches for Steve’s hand. It’s not worth even thinking about playing it cool, he needs that right now. And Steve reaches back. He holds his arm firm so Bucky can drag himself up. And doesn’t let go.

Bucky expects to see a wet spot on the front of his sweats when he’s vertical but there isn’t one. It was all in his mind. Thank heaven for that.

He swings his legs over the edge of the couch. Mack takes a step back into the doorway and fingers the strap on his shotgun. No time to worry about that. Mack will chill or he won’t.

“Did it work?” Mack asks.

“Yes,” Wanda says.

“Do you think we should…” Mack glances apprehensively at Bucky. “...try it?”

“Not right now,” Wanda says.

Fitz quietly removes himself from the knot of people around Bucky and retrieves the wiring strung about the place. Simmons pulls the devices off of him, and her face writes a soft apology.

“We had to shut down the entire system,” Simmons says. “Trying to separate out any one part was causing other processors to fail and it was just safer.”

She pulls a sling out of her bag and reaches out to his left arm. Even with both hands she can hardly lift the blasted thing and Bucky has to let go of Steve to hold the wrist in his other hand while she buckles the sling around it.

“This is better,” Bucky says. “Trust me.”

“I’m so sorry we couldn’t do more,” Simmons says.

“Surprised you did as much as this.”

“But, miss Maximoff was successful?”

“Think so,” Bucky says. “Feels like it. The book won’t work anymore.”

“What book?” Simmons asks.

Oh, right. Never told her about that. And she’s not getting May’s reports on him.

“Nevermind,” Bucky says. “You all did more good than you know.”

Wanda stands and smoothes her clothes. Maybe she’s not reading his mind but she’s reading his face. Wanda doesn’t need to be told. Too many people, too small of a space, too many questions.

“Your superiors will want an update,” Wanda says.

And Daisy wins the all-comers uptake speed trials, emerging from the hallway.

“Clear out, guys. I’ll give you a hand.”

Daisy helps Fitz-Simmons maneuver their cases back onto the cart. They put a hand on the one off to the side and say something he can’t hear, something like, “Leave that one,” and ratchet the straps down on the others. Wanda walks deliberately toward Mack to either force him to back out of the door or collide with her. He steps backwards onto the porch.

“Are they…” Mack starts, pointing midway between Bucky and Steve.

Wanda shushes him. Bucky has gained a new ally. Good. Wanda grabs the cart in a wave of light and manipulates it down the stairs. A useful ally.

When they’re gone and the door is closed Steve sits down on the couch and Bucky sets his head on Steve’s shoulder. Closes his eyes. Slots memories away to proceed with the body next to him. 

“You wanna talk about it?” Steve asks.

Bucky shakes his head.

“Ask me again later.”

“Alright.”

Steve is warm. Just resting he radiates. Bucky takes Steve’s hand back. Even his hands are hot.

“How long did that last, really?” Bucky asks.

“An hour, give or take.”

An hour? No. Years. An hour? He’d spent an hour just at home. Felt like. And that’s not including the journey through history.

“Fucking hell,” Bucky says. “She’s somethin’ else.”

“Yeah.”

Steve plaits his fingers into Bucky’s. _This_ isn’t a dream. He isn’t making this up. Couldn’t have. Couldn’t have imagined it. Those kids, God, those kids in Brooklyn, _fuck_ they had no idea what they were in for.

He adjusts the sling. Simmons got close but it’s difficult to put a sling straight on another person. And that arm is gone. He can’t feel a thing, not even the hints.

“Just gimme a minute,” Bucky says.

“Take all the time you need.”

Steve’s shoulder shifts into Bucky with his breath, and Bucky takes his cue. The rain picks up, and his heart rate slows in the sound. It rains just about every night here. Wouldn’t that be nice. Steve tilts his head to lay his cheek on Bucky’s hair. Wouldn’t _that_ be nice. 

Just a minute. While the agents aren’t here. Maybe just another minute. Steve will give it to him. A few minutes. He could fall asleep like this. But it’s better to be awake. Just a few more minutes. Steve is over him. And around him. And he’s warm.

The front door opens and the agents return at a run. But they were just rushing through the rain. Nothing to worry about. Mack doesn’t even have his shotgun with him anymore. And Steve doesn’t jump away, but he straightens and takes his hand back and Bucky picks himself up. Gotta go back to playing it cool. The future has its own consequences.

“Where’s Wanda?” Steve says.

“She’s having a bit of a lie down in the quinjet,” Simmons says. “I think that took a lot out of her.”

“And I’m sure out of you too,” Daisy says.

“What’s the update from SHIELD?” Steve says.

“Coulson is preparing a report for the CIA and Interpol with all of Fitz-Simmons notes. When we get a response… We’ll take it from there,” Mack says.

Bucky nods. The justice system is going to have to recalibrate. If SHIELD can convince them. How do you prosecute a person who no longer exists? Obviously you prosecute the body he used to inhabit.

“Who’s he talking to?” Steve asks.

No. Politics. No, Bucky doesn’t particularly want to listen to that. He stands, with some shaky difficulty. Hated as it was the programming and directives of the Winter Soldier had given him a confidence of movement he kinda misses. He’s done a lot of stumbling recently.

“I just need some air,” Bucky says, and escapes through the front door. Through the window the voices inside come muffled. He can’t understand what Simmons says, but Steve’s voice is easier to hear.

“He’s alright,” Steve says. “He just likes to watch the rain.”

True. Thanks for covering. He listens to the rain, tries to ignore the voices behind him, doesn’t try to understand. Nothing he can do about it. All he could do, he’s done. Agree. Go along. Don’t fight. He can keep that up. But better minds than his are getting paid to deal with the logistics. He can breathe the scent of the earth in the rain, and watch the orange sun turn red and sink. Just for a minute. 

Wanda emerges from the quinjet, pulling her hair back into a braid as she walks. When she clears the overhang of the quinjet she holds one hand over her head, and the rain breaks on a shimmering red shield, keeping her dry. Must be handy. At the porch she diverts from the door and stands next to him.

[“Feeling better?”] Bucky asks. The Russian comes unasked for, but it’s nice, having something with her that even Steve doesn’t share. After Steve, Wanda is the one person alive who knows him best, now. And he can do her the tiny favor of speaking a language she speaks more comfortably.

Wanda nods.

[“You?”]

Bucky shrugs with one shoulder. Hard to answer that question.

[“Were you watching all that going on in my head?”] Bucky asks instead.

[“I tried not to,”] Wanda says.

[“So that’s a yes.”]

[“I’m sorry. I had to keep an eye on you.”]

[“It’s alright. What did you tell them when you kept me under?”]

[“That you were having trouble with whatever they were doing. They were very concerned.”]

[“Thank you.”]

The rain curtains down from the roof. Lightning streaks, barely revealing the soaked grass and rivulets exploring the gravel. Wanda leans back against the porch railing, and wrings her hands in front of her.

[“I didn’t know,”] Wanda says.

Bucky twirls his hand noncommittally.

[“It wasn’t like that when we were kids. That was just a dream.”]

[“I know. But I can see what you are now.”]

[“Puts you ahead of me.”]

Wanda sighs, and looks down at her feet.

[“He keeps himself to himself, you know. Of course you know.”]

[“Yeah. That’s Steve.”]

She pauses, rocking one of her feet back and forth on its heel. Then takes a deep breath, and Bucky braces for it. She’s known Steve _now_ longer than he has. Known Captain America longer than he ever did.

[“He doesn’t date much,”] Wanda says. [“A couple of women, a couple of times, but not for long. But Sam and Natasha talk about men, when they think he can’t hear. Men he’s picked up, I guess. I think they worry about him.”]

Well thanks for that. Who else was gonna tell him?

And that checks out. Of course Steve hadn’t been alone, he’s too good at what he does. And Captain America could pull anyone he wanted. For a night, anyway. Keeping someone around, though… Life as an Avenger probably isn’t conducive to a lasting relationship. Life as a soldier was bad enough. And as for men, hell, what was he gonna do, keep a guy in secret? Steve would never do that to someone he cared about. Or hold his shield up and try to deflect the firestorm he’d suffer if he came out of the star spangled closet?

Although… apparently… he’s willing to risk it for Bucky… And Bucky knows for damned sure he’s willing to put up with whatever instability the Avengers can throw at them if it means being his.

[“I’m not gonna be much help to anybody worrying about him,”] Bucky says.

[“You don’t have to be,”] Wanda says. [“And I think they’ll come around if they get to know you.”]

[“The hell makes you think that?”]

Wanda smiles softly.

[“How much you love him. You’ve got that in common.”]

[“Not comforting.”]

[“Not like that. I mean maybe… It’s hard to tell anything with either of them, they’re almost as closed off as he is…”]

[“You can stop any time now.”]

Wanda reaches out and lays a hand on his arm.

[“And how much you’re willing to give up just so you won’t hurt anyone else. I think even Sam can respect that.”]

Bucky nods. He’s got a little bit of data on that one. The Falcon had been on the news too. Military. Retired. Jumped back in, to follow Steve. Maybe he can get over the Winter Soldier throwing him out of the sky. Romanov, of course, would have to get over being shot. But it can’t be the first time for her. And she paid him back in spades.

Wanda pats his arm and stands away from the railing.

[“I’ll see you inside.”]

[“Yeah.”]

She doesn’t expect him to follow. He doesn’t. Just a few minutes, without talking. Just a few minutes of inhuman babbling in the patter of the drops over his head. He likes Wanda. He likes the agents, thinks he could even like Mack if he could realize Bucky isn’t a threat. But he’d been able to go days on the beach without talking. Now he can’t go minutes. And it’s exhausting even when it’s pleasant.

He cinches the strap tighter on the sling. His neck is going to be killing him. At least the arm doesn’t hurt anymore.

At least he won’t hurt anyone else anymore.

…without meaning to. He’s not promised a life without violence. But he’ll get to choose, if his life brings violence back to him.

Anything within his power, anything Wanda wants, anything but Steve, in exchange for this, for the rest of his natural life, it’s hers. And it still won’t even them up.

Thunder rolls, and he listens. It’s got one thing to say and it’s not very complicated. The rain seems to wash everything out of the air, always does. Wipes his thoughts clean. He holds his hand out over the porch railing to catch it, and borrow some of its energy so he can go back inside.

Mack and Daisy are laughing when he walks back through the door, and they don’t stop when he closes it behind him.

“You should’ve seen the look on May’s face!” Simmons says. “She was mad enough to spit!”

Mack covers his eyes and thumps the arm of his chair. No idea what Simmons is talking about but the atmosphere is warm and lovely. And not even his presence cools it. Fitz-Simmons sit brushing close on the couch, knees touching, and Fitz lays his arm around the back to drape along Simmons shoulders when she sits back. Gosh that looks familiar.

“I can miss them without missing the practical jokes, right?” Daisy says.

“Of course,” Simmons says.

“Hunter was the _worst_ ,” Mack says. “I had to put up with him for years longer than you guys.”

Bucky sits on the floor in front of the fireplace. The agents have occupied all the furniture and Wanda and Steve are making themselves useful in the kitchen. A spicy scent wafts over the room, Wanda’s influence surely, something to look forward to.

“He switched out my brand new boots for half a size smaller,” Daisy says. “My feet were killing me for days before I caught him snickering about it.”

“He sat, in a room, for hours, and with his own two hands refilled my _toothpaste_ with Icy Hot!” Mack says. “Just so he could _watch_ the _one time_ I stuck that shit in my _mouth_!”

Daisy howls. And even Bucky smiles. The agents spare glances for Bucky but aren’t overly concerned. He’s joined a circle of conversation but it’s continuing over his head. It’s a comfortable place to be, surrounded by people who are comfortable with each other. They seem to take up less space, like they’re all one piece. Good team.

“Bobbi was just as bad,” Simmons says. “Bobbi knew her way around our lab.”

“I told her what kind of evidence goes in what color of bag and she deliberately forgot!” Fitz says.

“I don’t think that was deliberate, Fitz,” Simmons says, gently setting her hand on his knee. “But when she put shoepolish on your microscope, that was deliberate.”

“It wasn’t even on the eyepiece, it was on the handle! I got black streaks on a whole run of slides and had to prepare them all over again! And the _music_! I wanted Vivaldi and suddenly I’m listening to something German something techno metal locked at full volume until I unplugged the damn machine!”

“No, that wasn’t Bobbi, that was…” Simmons says, and trails off, pulling her lips in and regretting even starting the sentence.

“That was Ward,” Daisy mutters.

Then the room cools. Ward was a member of their team? No wonder May was so interested. Not just because he’d come after the Winter Soldier. It was personal.

“Hey, guys,” Steve says, and bangs on the side of a pot with a wooden spoon. “Come and get it.”

The party shuffles into the kitchen, to dodge around each other like they’ve never eaten this way before and never learned to retrieve bowls and fill them without jostling and pirouetting. Bucky straggles until everyone else had left the kitchen open, gets his food last and sits down last, taking his place back in front of the fireplace and setting his bowl on the crate. Steve and Wanda sit at the table, to their own side, but they watch Bucky and share inquisitive looks with one another.

“Oh!” Simmons says, rising up from the couch. “Bucky! We brought beer.”

She picks his bowl up from the crate and pries the lid off. Vapor pours out of it. Not just beer but cold beer, cases of it. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d decided he was kidding. But she hadn’t. She pulls out one of the bottles, and pauses in handing it to him. Yeah, he can’t flick the cap off anymore. She returns to the lid of the case for the opener and hands him the open bottle.

“Thanks,” Bucky says. He doesn’t recognize the label. Worth a shot anyway. And it’s not bad.

“Anyone else?” Simmons says, and responds to the room full of, “Yes, please,” with repeated action of the opener until she can settle on the couch again. Bucky moves his bowl to the coffee table.

The food looks like a mess but tastes like a masterpiece.

“Thank you,” Simmons says to the table. “You are too kind.”

“You’re welcome,” Steve says.

“We are used to it,” Wanda says, elbowing Steve. “It is easier to cook for everyone when everyone is staying in the Tower.”

“This is wonderful,” Daisy says. “What is it?”

“Just a goulash,” Wanda says. “It was one of my grandmother’s recipes.”

“Then it’s perfect,” Mack says. “Nothing beats gramma’s food.”

“I had to substitute a few things,” Wanda says. “You should address your spice cabinet the next time you go shopping.”

“Yes ma’am,” Simmons says, saluting with her fork in her hand, to a round of chuckles.

“You and Coulson should swap recipes,” Daisy says. “I think he writes the grocery list for _his_ grandmother’s cooking.”

“Hey you can’t complain though,” Mack says.

Food disappears. Beer after beer hiss open, not enough to affect Bucky or Steve and Wanda doesn’t partake. But the agents get a little flushed, and a little loud, and a little clumsy. Daisy gathers the dishes from the living room, nearly drops them twice, and pulls a face that has Simmons in stitches. Fitz-Simmons unabashedly snuggle on the couch and seem to have a difficult time keeping track of their hands. Must have been a long time since any of them had leave. Poor kids. Hydra will do that to a person.

“Oh, and remember the time the rat got into the training room?” Mack says.

“Yes!” Daisy cries. “I’ve never seen Piper move so fast!”

“Piper will move as fast as she needs to keep on May’s behind…” Fitz mutters over his beer, to another round of laughter. 

“That poor little puppy,” Simmons says, wiping at her eyes.

“Can’t say I blame her,” Mack says, and bobs his eyebrows, and Daisy collapses in a fit.

“Bad idea!” Fitz says. “Big bad idea!”

“Oh come now, May has a soft side,” Simmons says. “I’ve even seen her dance.”

“Sure, with Coulson! On a mission!”

“No before that! They were practicing at the base and it was so sweet!”

And it slowly dawns on Bucky that they haven’t been telling war stories. They’ve certainly got their fair share but they’re not telling them here, not talking about enemies defeated and battles won. They’re talking about each other. The happiness in their lives between the missions.

And he’s got a few of those stories.

“I tried to take Steve out dancing for his birthday once,” Bucky says. And all eyes are on him immediately.

Steve tenses briefly, but he shakes his head and smiles.

“You’re not gonna tell them about that guy on the boardwalk, are you?”

Which means, “Go ahead and tell them about that guy on the boardwalk.” He’s gonna let Bucky embarrass him. Fantastic. Wanda smiles encouraging at him. And even Mack leans forward in his chair.

“You gotta understand,” Bucky continues, “it’s not like Steve was just skinny back then. He was busted. It had to be a really good day for him to even try. I begged him for days and he finally agreed. So we went out to this place I knew and Steve spent the whole time working up his nerve to ask this one girl to dance. And when he finally did turns out she’s got this huge guy with her. And he’s ass deep in beer and swaying in Steve’s face…”

He sways with his finger up to illustrate and the agents grin.

“…yelling about how he’s not gonna let Steve make a pass at his girl. So Steve backs off and we leave. We hit the boardwalk to play a game or two and then we’re walking home and there’s that fucking guy again! He’s got five or six other guys with him look just as unfriendly as he does. And he storms over talking shit. And he takes a swing at Steve. But he’s so pissed Steve just steps out of the way, and this guy trips over his own feet and goes ass over teakettle down the stairs to the beach and falls flat on the sand.”

He smacks his hand flat on the table. And no one jumps.

“And all his friends are laughing at him. And me and Steve, we just walked off like the biggest couple of badasses you ever did see.”

“Did you ever see him again?” Simmons asks.

“That guy?” Bucky says. “No, I think he got called up.”

“But the next time we went to that bar…” Steve starts, and then waves a hand at Bucky. “Nawh, man you tell it.”

“Oh, shit right! The next time we went to that bar,” Bucky says, “that guy’s whole posse was there. And they see us soon as we walk in and I’m thinking here we go, this is gonna be a massacre. But Steve just swaggers up to them and he says “Hey guys, let me buy you a round.” And they all say “Hell no, we’re buying!” Cuz turns out that guy was an asshole and that girl was one of the other guy’s sister. And after he got shown up by Steve fucking Rogers they ran him out on a rail. So they’re buying Steve drinks left and right, and I’m drinking most of them cuz Steve can’t hold his fucking liquor, and we’re all laughing and I swear to God I never made so many friends in one night.”

“One of them got me a job,” Steve says.

“Yeah, Conner did,” Bucky says. “At that grocery store.”

“So this one time I’m out with Jacobi and a bunch of hackers back in the day,” Daisy says. “We’re at the Landing, and it was kind of a club with a bar and a bunch of computers hooked up for LAN parties and stuff, so, you know, the LANding. Anyway. It was our turf, right. And the Crystal Nymph walks in! And… sorry, she and Jacobi had kind of a thing, didn’t end well, it’s kind of a long story… And anyway she comes over to us like nothing has changed and she didn’t fuck us over the last time we’d seen her and almost got Jacobi arrested. And the _DJ_ , oh my god, he was a buddy of ours, and he turns all the spotlights on her and starts playing “You Haven’t Earned It!” In like thirty seconds the whole club is dancing around her and singing and I’m… I’m not gonna sing but anyway it was like the perfect song. Everybody’s pointing and laughing and she stormed out in a huff. And then like five years later, Simmons you remember this, we ran into her in Phoenix at a dry cleaners!”

“That was your contact with the… rather remarkable hair?” Simmons says.

“Yeah I think it was purple then,” Daisy says. “She was so embarrassed she left town!”

“I ever tell you about the time Bobbi and I were in Tokyo and we got into a drinking contest with that CEO’s ex-Mossad security force?” Mack says.

“No!” Simmons says.

“Oh, Jesus. Strap in. Bucky, you’re gonna appreciate this…”

The tide of conversation rolls in, and this time he’s carried along in it. He’s Made A Contribution. The agents address him with their stories, and use him as an excuse to tell the ones the rest of them already know. He calls up the appropriate reactions from storage, shows surprise and laughs along, and it takes work but it’s good practice. Coming back. They seem to accept it. And they keep him in their circle as the hours get longer and Steve and Wanda do the dishes themselves and the time slips away.

Until Steve steps in to kill the buzz and says, “You guys in a hurry to be anywhere?”

“Not exactly,” Daisy says.

“It’s late and you’re drunk,” Steve says. “Just leave the quinjet parked on the grass.”

“We couldn’t…” Simmons says, but she doesn’t like saying it.

“You can and you should,” Bucky says. “You do own the place.”

“Well technically…”

Bucky sends her a special smile and points at the unused bedroom. “You guys take that bedroom. We can bunk up.”

Simmons bites her bottom lip and blushes scarlett. Those kids deserve a little downtime.

“Take the couch,” Steve says to Wanda. “Since you fixed it.”

[“You might not want to do that,”] Bucky says. [“I might be able to keep Steve polite but I can’t make any promises for those two.”]

[“I don’t have to hear if I don’t want to,”] Wanda says, twirling her fingers alongside her ear. If that’s true it must be _very_ handy.

[“Can’t say I didn’t warn you,”] Bucky says.

“I’d be more comfortable in the quinjet,” Daisy says.

“Me too,” Mack says, a hair too quickly. 

All rise and mill about toward chosen doors. Pairs and groups exchange goodnights, and Mack even offers his hand to shake Bucky’s on his way out the door. Steve darts into the second bedroom and comes out with a pillow and blanket before he waves Fitz-Simmons into it.

“Night, all,” Steve says.

“Yes, um. Thank you. Goodnight.”

Simmons smiles pink and shuts the door behind Fitz.

Steve sets the pillow and the blanket down on the couch, and wraps one arm around Wanda’s waist and hugs her. He says, “Thank you,” and she smiles. She says, “Goodnight,” and he nods.

Steve moves away toward their room. And following means walking past Wanda. So Bucky holds out his one arm. And Wanda walks into it. He hugs her too. The only body but Steve’s he’s held in decades. Willing and soft. It’s easier than he thought it would be.

[“Thank you isn’t enough,”] Bucky says.

[“It is for me,”] Wanda says. [“Sweet dreams, Bucky.”]

And they smile at each other when he moves away. More than an ally. Maybe a friend. Maybe figure out how to keep in touch, after they leave.

“You and Wanda seem to get along,” Steve says after the door clicks shut behind him.

“Yeah. We have a lot in common.”

Steve pulls his shirt off and Bucky moves to do the same, quickly running into a problem with the sling. Hm, this will take some figuring. He unclips it and lowers the mechanical arm with his other hand, lifts the hem of his shirt in his elbow and argues it up one side. Steve steps over to him and holds out a hand.

“Don’t,” Bucky says. “Don’t help.”

Steve nods. And drops his hand. The look on his face doesn’t appear to be pity, just the same sadness Bucky has seen before. Regret. Steve couldn’t catch him. Wasn’t his fault. But Bucky knows what that’s like.

“So, you said I could ask you about it later?” Steve says. “What you saw with Wanda?”

“I don’t know if I can explain what she did first,” Bucky says. He twists his shirt around his neck and over his head, glad for the distraction. “I guess Hydra linked the triggers to real memories and she had to fix them. I don’t really remember much except that it worked.”

He pulls the shirt down his left arm and tosses it on top of Steve’s. Success. He rebuckles the sling. Keep the damned thing out of the way.

“Then while Fitz-Simmons was fucking around she just let me dream,” Bucky says.

“What did you dream about?” Steve asks. 

He sounds worried. So Bucky quirks a little smile and says, “You. What else?”

Steve picks up the smile and it looks like relief. He holds out a hand but this one is just to touch, and connects with Bucky’s waist.

“I’ve been on the receiving end of Wanda’s abilities too,” Steve says. “She can be pretty brutal in the things she can make people see. I didn’t think she would, or not on purpose. But when you were out so much longer than Fitz-Simmons was working I was afraid she’d pulled up something from Hydra.”

“No, she was being nice,” Bucky says. “Sent me home for a bit.”

“Anything I’d remember?” Steve asks.

“Maybe,” Bucky says, stepping into Steve’s hand and into his aura of warmth. “I don’t remember the exact day, but I remember it was snowing. I was coming home from being in the field. And I… I hitchhiked home so I’d get back early. And then I lied about it when you asked.”

“I know,” Steve says. “I knew the train schedules the days you came home. I knew when you lied.”

“You little punk.”

“You did it a lot.”

“Shut up.”

Steve brushes his nose along Bucky’s, and when Bucky tilts his head Steve tilts back and doesn’t let their lips connect. Ah, well, he wasn’t finished with the story. Keep talking.

“I don’t think Wanda knew what she was doing,” Bucky says. “But the day she dropped me into… When that really happened, I almost told you… everything. But I chickened out.”

“That I didn’t know,” Steve says quietly, and rests his hands on Bucky’s hips. Stroking his exposed waist with his thumbs. That’s backwards. But Steve doesn’t know. He didn’t see the dream.

“But in the dream I could,” Bucky says. “So, I did.”

Tell him? Yes. Tell him. Hold him, and tell him. What had he said?

“I told you… that you were it for me. You got me, and you’re the only one there’s ever gonna be.”

“God, Buck,” Steve says, “Why would you go and do that?”

“Cuz you are. Always were.”

Steve tips his head down and rests his forehead on Bucky’s.

“Then what?”

“We, uh…”

Bucky wraps his arm up Steve’s back. It almost feels like infidelity, even though it had been him and a dream besides. But Steve is smiling sideways like he’s enjoying the story and Bucky powers through it.

“We got each other off on that ratty old couch.”

Steve’s smile levels out in a proper grin.

“Can’t tell you how many times I thought about that.”

And Bucky wants to say, “You should’ve said something,” but Steve could say the same. Steve should’ve, Bucky should’ve, but they didn’t. 

“Ask Wanda,” Bucky says. “Maybe she can show you.”

“That would be a little awkward.”

“What, you don’t want to ask your friend to let you go back in time and fuck your best friend eighty years ago?”

“Yeah it sounds much better when you say it like that.”

Bucky lifts his chin, aiming to kiss him, but Steve lifts his head. The grin drops down into a smirk.

“I’m gonna kiss you,” Steve says. “But I want to hear you say please first.”

Well at least he’s honest. But he gave Bucky a chance to be an asshole about it that he just can’t resist. He can slowly run the tip of his tongue over his lips, and lean into Steve’s face so he can feel his breath, and make it as difficult as possible for Steve to wait for what he’s asked for. And Bucky can watch Steve’s eyes go out of focus and feel him almost stop breathing.

“Please,” Bucky whispers. “Please kiss me.”

He does. He said he would. And his lips are so warm… 

They sit together on the edge of the bed. And Steve is watching his balance, balancing himself, so Bucky can lean on him and has his hand free. It’s such a sweet little thing Bucky can hardly believe it. It’s the lack of the shoulder that’s more of a problem. Being completely unable to shift his weight to that side to readjust. But Steve braces him in his arms and holds his back straight and Bucky isn’t going anywhere.

Until they’re seated and Bucky lays his hand in the middle of Steve’s chest, and holds him back far enough to look. He’s got to see and feel and remember. He pushes and Steve goes down on his back. Bucky has gotten more of this, more of the breadth of him now than just one dream, but the dream had been _so real_. He gingerly revisits the landscape of muscle and roadmap of scars with the tips of his fingers. And Steve doesn’t stop him this time. He doesn’t grab Bucky’s hand when he finds the intersection between the white line the knife left on the helicarrier and the red one from the bottle and circles it slowly. 

And Bucky realizes, looking, that there aren’t any other scars on Steve but the ones he knows. Wasn’t any opponent but the Winter Soldier got close enough to leave a mark on him. The only opponent he wouldn’t fight. The only threat Captain America wouldn’t take down was him.

And then Bucky is kissing his chest, following his fingers with his lips across every inch, a reverent return balancing the equation. Steve trembles, and he clenches his fists in the sheets, but he lies still. He knows, he knows what it means, he’s not gonna take that away, but he probably wishes he could. Can’t ignore it, though. Can’t pretend it didn’t happen. Just… Change it. Reclaim his skin. Somehow.

Bucky almost imagines he should be able to taste the difference but he can’t, the colorless skin doesn’t taste like pain, it just tastes like Steve. He presses a solid kiss to the round scar over Steve’s hip, the kidney shot that must have put him in the hospital. It’s quiet, no one in the other rooms should be able to hear anything, so long as Steve keeps his mouth shut. Bucky’s is covered, and the sound of his lips on Steve’s skin isn’t much. Even with one hand he can draw out the tail of Steve’s belt and unfasten it without jingling, move on, move down, come back. 

But he has to kiss him first. Make his intent clear. Their sadness has been acknowledged. But they don’t have to live there. He can live in gentle worship, here, for now. He’s gotta tell him, and Steve hears him, carding his fingers into Bucky’s hair and kissing him long and deep to welcome the development. And when Steve releases him Bucky stands up, centers his balance, holds Steve’s eyes and folds to his knees between Steve’s feet.

Steve furrows his brow and brings a fist to his mouth, driving his knuckles into his lips. For a second Bucky’s not sure what the reaction means, if that was too much right now, if Steve’s gonna pull him back up and tell him to stop. But then Steve sits up and leans over him and wraps that hand in his hair and kisses him again, rough, like he does after that switch has been flipped and he’s started to burn.

“Jesus you look good on your knees…” Steve whispers.

And then he feels good on his knees, knowing it’s right. With Steve over him, taking up his whole world.

He bends into Steve’s lap and mouths at his erection through his shorts. Maybe he’s different, maybe he isn’t, but he’s wanted regardless. He grips at Steve’s thigh, tucks his fingers under the edge of his pants and his shorts, and starts to pull. Then stops, with an idea, an inkling that there’s something he ought to do first, and tilts his head up to meet Steve’s wide staring eyes.

“Please,” Bucky whispers. And even though he feels like it’s become a requirement albeit a cherished one to catch when Steve’s flames lick at him and fall under Steve’s control, he can still draw out the word on his lips like a manipulative little shit.

And it works. Steve’s breath rushes out like he’s been punched and he fists Bucky’s hair tight. Bucky holds down the rising grin to keep the plaintive expression on his face. Steve’s given Bucky some measure of power over him too, in knowing him. Steve hauls him closer and nips at his neck, intensifying the bites as he moves down, and then closes his teeth hard on Bucky’s shoulder.

 _Fuck_ that’s the same _fucking_ spot son of a _bitch_ that hurts! Bucky’s teeth grind together but he doesn’t cry out. Just cusses in his head and bends limp into Steve. Alright, he deserved that. He was being a little shit, poking at Steve to get a reaction, and this is the reaction he should’ve figured he’d get.

“Mine,” Steve breathes in his ear.

Hells yes he is.

“Yours,” Bucky gasps back.

They work together to get the rest of Steve’s clothes off and Steve lets Bucky have what he asked for. Bucky wraps his lips around the head of Steve’s cock and draws off, takes him halfway into his mouth to coat him with his tongue and draws off again, then dips his head to let Steve slide down the middle of his tongue and bump gently into his soft palate at the back. Steve holds the back of Bucky’s head with one hand and the base of his cock with the other to keep the two in line but he’s not shoving. Making Bucky cough would make entirely too much noise. And he lets Bucky take his time. He’s not racing to the finish, and that’s delightful. Bucky can truly enjoy it because it is, he finds, enjoyable.

What can he say, Steve’s cock feels good in his mouth. You’d asked him a week ago he wouldn’t have been able to say but a lot can change in a week. Feels good, the heat under his lips and soft friction with paper thin skin on his tongue over barely yielding firmness underneath. He plays for a minute before he falls into a rhythm, and hears nothing from Steve but a barely audible sigh.

Bucky doesn’t need his hand to keep Steve steady and he can grope at his thigh and at his hip and at what he can get at of his ass. Next time he lays Steve out and takes at him with his hands and his mouth, it’ll be at Steve’s back. Sheesh his ass isn’t even fair.

Bucky doesn’t get any feedback from Steve but his fingers slowly clawing up on the back of his head, still not forcing the issue, just an indication of where he’s at. Bucky speeds incrementally when he feels Steve’s fingers tighten and figures it’s the right thing to do because a moment later they tighten again, and again. Until his thigh tenses under Bucky’s hand and doesn’t relax and Bucky holds him at the front of his tongue so Steve’s come won’t hit his throat and make him choke.

And how the hell is Steve still silent? Maybe he’s used to hiding. If he’s hiding men from the Avengers. Thinking about that is a bad idea. Steve shouldn’t have to hide a damned thing. Any Goddamn thing he does is right because it’s him doing it and it’s the world that’s wrong if he has to protect himself from it. They can move. He shouldn’t have to.

Steve pulls Bucky up onto the bed, and wraps an arm around his back to lower him down. He didn’t _need_ that, his balance isn’t _that_ bad, but he’s not gonna complain about having Steve holding him close and laying down over him, half on top of him and half next to him with the sling in the way. And kissing him, and skimming his fingers over Bucky’s groin, and pulling at the elastic of the sweats.

“My turn,” Steve whispers.

Oh no. How terrible.

Bucky lifts his ass off the bed so Steve can strip him. He’s not much help but Steve doesn’t need it. And Steve moves down to recline next to him, draped along one of Bucky’s legs instead of between them. He’s closer that way. More of their bodies are still touching that way. Mother Mary Bucky didn’t even think it was possible to love someone so much. Steve bends over and takes Bucky’s cock into his mouth and Bucky has to _focus_ to just inhale hard through his nose instead of voice the moan he feels.

Steve gives as good as he gets. Probably better. Bucky doesn’t know, can’t give himself a blowjob. But he’d be shocked if Steve wasn’t better. Bucky’s entire being is narrowed to his cock fast, to feeling nothing but Steve’s mouth slipping so sweetly on him, saliva running out over his fingers.

Ah, he’s got a reason for being sloppy. Bucky can guess that spit wouldn’t be enough to fuck him, not comfortably anyway, but it’s enough for _one_ of Steve’s fingers to slip into him and stay, curl and press up into that place he’s starting to get used to, like Steve is lifting Bucky’s cock out of himself into his mouth to suck on it.

Bucky gasps and his gasp has voice and Steve lifts his head just long enough to “Shh” quietly before he fills his mouth again. That son of a bitch is going to tell him to be quiet but he’s not going to make it easy.

In point of fact he seems to be deliberately making it difficult. Bucky chokes on his cries when Steve takes his cock down to the back of his throat and holds, rocking his finger back and forth instead. Bucky’s holding his breath to keep silent but that just makes it worse, brings him to greater focus on what Steve is doing and how _amazing_ it feels.

But there are soft sounds coming from the adjoining room, muffled breaths and tiny voices that seem indicative of the same goings on. Guess Simmons isn’t shushing Fitz. Good for them. Hope Wanda meant what she said about making herself deaf or she’s getting an earful.

He hits the edge and his hips buck, and Steve lifts his head, removing the sensation and smashing his impending orgasm to splinters. Bucky has to cover his mouth with his hand or yell obscenities. God _damn_ him, God _fucking_ damn him, God _damn_ that _fucking_ man and his _ceaseless_ torture. One of these days. One of these days he’s just gonna snap and Steve’s gonna get a taste of his own medicine.

Steve sits up a bit, and grabs a handful of the sheets up from the bed, pulls Bucky’s jaw down with his thumb and shoves the sheet in his mouth.

… Or not. Jesus that was hot, alright, alright, no Steve can call the shots, that’s fine. That’s fine. Jesus. He did half of his mouth’s work there.

And the sheets don’t mean Bucky can’t make noise but it gives him something to bite down on when Steve goes back to work and that helps. And muffles the sounds he can’t help because Steve is bound and determined to make it impossible to be quiet. Bucky’s got his hand free, he _could_ just take the sheet back out of his mouth, but… No, can’t do that. He _can’t_. Steve put it there and there it stays until his say so. Dammit.

He spirals down on his orgasm again, and his ass clenches and lifts him off the bed, and he _knows_ it’s gonna happen before it does but _fuck_ when Steve stops again Bucky’s hand balls into a fist and there’s nothing he can slam it into. God _damn_ him, it’s not like he actually wants Steve to stop but could he _not_ be such an _asshole_ just _once_!

Steve looks up at him. And Bucky glares with his mouth snarled around the sheets. Steve reaches up again, and pulls the sheets out of his teeth, and holds them at the side of his face ready to put them back.

“Say it,” Steve says.

God. Dammit.

Steve knows. Doesn’t have to be Wanda to know exactly what’s going on in Bucky’s head. But the rage bleeds away under his eyes. Mary Mother of God he’s _gorgeous_. Shining with arousal and ringing in the air with barely contained power Steve is and has always been the most beautiful thing Bucky has ever laid eyes on. Anything he wants. How could Bucky have ever thought anything different?

“Please let me come,” Bucky whimpers.

Steve smiles. And pokes the sheets back between Bucky’s teeth. And it occurs to Bucky when Steve bends over his cock again that he hadn’t actually said “Yes.”

But he seems to mean “Yes.” He pins Bucky’s cock between his mouth and his finger and alternates which he moves until Bucky’s hips start to spasm again, and he holds his finger still and just pulls Bucky’s cock in and out of his mouth. He remembers, of course he does, Bucky told him only this morning. _Fuck_ it is so much better closing down with Steve touching the inside of his body, _fuck_ please dear God don’t let him stop again, _fuck_ he’s so close it hurts, it’s gonna hurt when he comes but he can already tell, man this is going to feel _so_ good… 

And what it feels like is being ripped in half, split on Steve’s mouth and screaming ecstasy though he manages not to scream. It’s better and worse, after the near misses. He’s in tatters, this is the only one he’s gonna get for a _while_ but it’s white hot and beautiful.

Steve withdraws his mouth and his finger slowly, trailing out the end of the pleasure. He gently lifts the sheets out of Bucky’s mouth and makes better use of them, wiping off and dropping them over the edge of the bed. Bucky paints the inside of his mouth with his tongue and licks his lips and thinks he can speak again.

“Promise me…” Bucky pants.

“Promise you what, baby?” Steve says, stroking his thigh.

“Promise me you won’t do that every time.”

Steve snorts once, holding his shoulders down on laughing. “Promise,” he says, and crawls up the bed and lies down next to him.

“I don’t think I could take it,” Bucky says.

“I won’t make you,” Steve says.

“That thing with the sheets, though, that was… You can do that again.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah. That works.”

“Good to know.”

Steve works an arm under Bucky’s head, and taps at the strap on the sling.

“You wanna take this off?” Steve says.

“No. Can’t move it, gotta keep it still.”

“Alright.”

Means it’s more comfortable to lie on his right side, though. But he can tuck his right arm up in Steve’s side and lay his head on his shoulder, and that’s not so bad. Still close. And hey, Fitz-Simmons said they were already designing a replacement, so maybe he won’t be putting up with it for long. He settles, and closes his eyes. Steve wears him out in the best possible way.

“You gonna let me sleep?” Bucky mutters.

“I will not promise that,” Steve says.

Bucky shrugs, as much as he can.

“I’ll take what I can get,” Bucky says.

Steve turns on his side to face him, shifts around until Bucky’s head is comfortable on his arm again, and kisses him softly.

“You got me,” Steve says.

What an unbelievable sap.

“I love you,” Bucky says.

“I love you.”

“Sometimes because of and sometimes in spite of.”

“You don’t wanna start with that, Bucky.”

Bucky smiles. True enough.

“You got me,” Bucky says, drifting off in sleep heavy words. “All yours.”

Steve sighs, but it sounds like he’s smiling when he does.

“My Bucky.”

Bucky nods. And stills. Colorless darkness closes down, warm contentment, and dreams that don’t match up anymore.


	5. Anything He Needs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Retreat comes under attack. And Bucky lives through the consequences.

Bucky awakens to rushing booms. And for a beautiful half a second he thinks it’s thunder.

Then he’s awake. And it’s not thunder.

He shoves out at Steve. It’s jets. More than one, more than two, not sure if it’s more than three.

“Steve. Up. Incoming.”

“Wha-”

Steve stops, and listens, and comes awake quick. 

“I hear it,” he says. He spins out of the bed and pulls on a pair of sweats from the duffle, tossing a pair back so Bucky can do the same. Sounds like small jets, but it’s hard to tell when there’s more than one. Little fighter types, not a big personnel carrier. Not promising. 

Steve opens the door and Fitz-Simmons creep out of the other bedroom, hastily redressed and rubbing their eyes.

“We expecting company?” Steve says.

“No…” Fitz says.

Wanda is already up and looking out the window. The jets they can hear they still can’t see. The sound is coming from directly above them, hovering and not moving. Not a lot of jets can do that. If they’re not expecting SHIELD, they’re expecting someone else who has their planes. Bucky can take a wild guess.

“Hydra,” Bucky says.

“Raise Coulson,” Steve says.

Fitz goes to it with a SHIELD com, and Simmons leans into the window next to Wanda, looking up at all of the nothing they can see.

“Can’t be,” Simmons says.

Can be. 

Bucky moves into the kitchen. Where did they leave that knife? It was heavy, had good balance, never discount a good kitchen knife. There it is. That’ll get him started.

Bucky should’ve known. Hydra _was_ SHIELD, SHIELD _was_ Hydra, anything SHIELD knew Hydra knew and if SHIELD knew the location of Hydra’s most valuable asset… 

“They followed you,” Bucky says. “Still looking for me.”

Simmons turns back slowly, and sees him with the knife, and the horror and sorrow on her face are going to keep Bucky up nights, he just knows it.

Steve crouches in the fireplace and reaches up into the chimney. His hand comes down holding the shield. His shield, Captain America’s shield. He slips his arm into the grips, and he shrugs it at Bucky.

“Sorry,” Steve says.

Not a problem. Steve was brought here for security. It’s a good thing he’s got it now. 

“Sir?” Fitz says into the com. “There are unknown jets over the facility - ”

Outside the window the air around them turns a glitchy yellow opaque, wavers, and vanishes. If he’s taking wild guesses, that means the forcefield is down. 

“Got any guns up that chimney?” Bucky asks.

Steve shakes his head. Of course not. If the Winter Soldier got ahold of Steve’s shield it would have been inconvenient. If the Winter Soldier had gotten ahold of a gun… 

“Sir?” Fitz says. “Director?”

“Everyone see that?” Wanda says.

“Yes,” Steve says. “Defense grid is offline.”

“The com went dead,” Fitz says.

The thunder of the jets descends. Steve taps the controls for the exterior door. Nothing happens. Wanda flicks the light switch in the kitchen. Nothing happens.

“It could’ve been an EMP,” Fitz says.

“We have to get to Daisy and Mack,” Simmons says.

“We’d be running across an open field with jets in the air,” Bucky says. “Not a good idea.”

Bucky runs down the roster in his head in an instant. Steve? He can take care of himself. Wanda? She can take care of herself. Mack? He can take care of himself. Daisy? She can take care of herself. Fitz-Simmons? Obviously. When the shooting starts, take care of them.

Three quinjets shimmer into view as they land. And he guessed right. SHIELD, sort of. Hydra, really. They took off with a pretty impressive stash after D.C. A patch of wavering air hovers beside the SHIELD jet, a fourth plane still cloaked. Hopefully Daisy and Mack are awake.

“Alright listen,” Bucky says quickly. “Jets that size you can figure eight men in each. Pilot and gunner will stay on board if they’re smart, keep the weapons available. Bet on about twenty men on the ground.”

“What?” Simmons says, but she doesn’t need to understand. She won’t be fighting. Steve and Wanda are listening.

“If these walls are built like I think they are we’re safe in here but out there they’ll kill you dead,” Bucky says. “Daisy and Mack have a few seconds to wake up if they start firing. Quinjet’s armor should take a couple rounds even if the EMP knocked it out and they can’t raise a shield.”

The ramps to the quinjets on the grass lower but they don’t power down. Yeah, they’re playing it smart. They can lift off any time and bring those weapons to bear. Soldiers fan out, covering the cabin, covering SHIELD’s quinjet. Hope Daisy and Mack are already awake. He doesn’t envy anyone on the wrong side of Daisy’s hands.

“What’s the play, Captain?” Bucky says.

“We’ll clear a path, get to Daisy and Mack,” Steve says. “Main objective is the Hydra jet nearest them. We’ll need one to get out of here. Wanda, you and I will do what we can about the others, don’t want them taking us back out of the sky. Buck, you get ahold of one of their rifles, you cover us, get to the jet with these two. Fitz-Simmons you don’t move til Bucky gives you a go.”

A tall and angular man strides down a ramp and toward the door of the Retreat as Steve calls the play. All of the other soldiers have their rifles up and ready in their hands but this one has his strapped out of reach on his back and his hands empty. He’s not even wearing a helmet. One of those cocky assholes who thinks being in charge will save him. Two of his soldiers dart ahead of him and approach up onto the porch, covering the door. The asshole stands in the gravel path and shouts at the cabin.

“Mister Barnes! You know who we are and you know what we want!”

“Ward,” Simmons growls.

Jesus, she drawn herself up so tight she looks like a caged tiger. Oh there’s rage there. Whatever Grant Ward did it was more than just coming out as Hydra.

“How the hell does he know my name?” Bucky says.

“I’m giving you a chance to come with us,” Ward says. “I don’t want to make you but I will if I have to.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Steve says to Bucky.

“Fuck no, he’s gonna have to shoot me,” Bucky says.

Fitz has gone stock still and as white as Steve’s star. Can’t tell if it’s rage or terror, but whatever’s holding Fitz is powerful and directed at Grant Ward. Fuck, he’s gonna be fucking _useless_ out there.

“It’s a shame there’s anyone else here,” Ward says. “We could’ve worked this out just you and me. 

“And your small army,” Bucky mutters.

“I thought this place was your best kept secret,” Steve says.

“Hydra has been in SHIELD for so long…” Simmons says, and spreads her hands helplessly.

Steve’s nostrils flare but it’s a waste of time to shout about it now. If he’d known he wasn’t as safe as he thought he was, he’d be armed in the uniform instead of barefoot in sweats. And he’d have more backup. Or he wouldn’t have let Bucky come at all.

“Come with me, and I’ll let the rest of them go,” Ward says.

“He’s lying,” Fitz hisses. “He’s always lying. He _will_ kill us.”

“No, we’re fighting through this,” Bucky says. 

He yanks the strap on the sling down as tight at it will go. _Fuck_ couldn’t those kids have waited to turn his fucking arm off… They didn’t know. Just gonna have to make do. And hey, at least that part of him is bulletproof, and strapped across his chest. Might help.

“Mister Barnes! I won’t wait all day!” Ward says.

“Just like old times, huh?” Steve says.

Bucky scoffs.

“Old times, I’d be up that hill with my own rifle in both my hands. I wish it was old times.”

“You two are awfully cavalier about all this!” Simmons wails.

Bucky shrugs.

“Seen worse.”

Steve nods.

“Yep. On my go.”

The side of the SHIELD quinjet tears away in a screaming crash and flies into the patch of wavering air, smashing across a haphazardly revealed quinjet. Daisy crouches with her hands raised in the decimated opening and Mack fires something shoulder mounted over her head. Thundering waves of energy and an explosive projectile slam into the Hydra quinjet and flip it over on its axis, sending it careening out of control down the hill and into the valley below.

“Shit!” Bucky exclaims. To think they were planning on rescuing those two!

“Go! Wanda! Go!” Steve shouts.

Well, time to improvise. Keep an eye on Steve. God willing Ward wasn’t expecting this.

Wanda’s red flashes out from her hands and blows the door out of the Retreat, slamming the two soldiers standing on the porch back into the railing. She storms forward with a red shield covering herself and outward to the edge of the doorway, catching the first rounds fired by the others. The red moves forward independently of her, directed by her twisting fingers, and sweeps soldiers aside. She retrieves it just in time to deflect the stunned return fire of their compatriots.

Steve tears out left, slamming his shield into the face of the soldier in his way on the porch and crumpling him. He launches his shield out at another and it bowls him over, and Steve catches it on an impossible rebound, vaulting over the railing and covering himself behind the shield to move forward.

Fitz-Simmons are staring out the open doorway. God _save_ him from civilians… 

“Get the fuck back!” Bucky shouts, before Wanda moves off the porch and takes the red with her and shots slam into the wall behind them. Simmons grabs Fitz’ shirt and pulls him down beside the doorway. Good. The wall will hold. Good enough for now.

Bucky darts right and takes the knife to the goon on the porch bright enough to raise his rifle. He knows the weak points in body armor, and loses the knife in the man’s collarbone. His hand is too slick with blood to retrieve it but the soldier is down and his rifle is up for the taking. One in the field firing on the cabin falls to Bucky’s hasty shot from the waist before he ducks down beside the stairs for the cover they will provide.

He doesn’t need the words to remember violence. That comes back on its own.

He reaches up to steady the rifle with his left hand and _fuck_ no he doesn’t, can’t do that, prop it on the stairs instead. _Fuck_ that’s hardly stable but it’s gonna have to do. He’ll get one shot and have to steady it again. One shot, make it good… 

Ward is nowhere to be seen. Fled when the shooting started like those cocky assholes always do. But there are plenty of targets besides him. One shot takes down one soldier and the rifle jumps. God dammit, wasn’t meant for this. Bucky rocks it back to center and sights again. One more shot takes down one more soldier. Repeat. Bloody hellfire. His kingdom for a bipod. The soldiers get wise and he pulls himself down beside the stairs, hears shots ricochet off the concrete behind him.

Soldiers fly aside in Wanda’s red streaks. Yep, she’s holding her own, knew she could. Mack keeps cover behind the SHIELD quinjet, taking potshots at the soldiers. He’s dropped the rocket launcher, understandable, those things take for-fucking-ever to reload, but he’s got that shotgun. He’s in the same boat Bucky is but he knows what he’s doing. 

Beside Mack, Daisy crouches low, and waves of energy pulse out of her hands. They intensify quickly, and just as Bucky starts to think she’s starting an earthquake to bring the hill down under them she launches herself up instead and lands on top of one of the quinjets faster than anybody can figure out what the fuck she’s doing. She holds her hands out at the engines, shaking them against their bearings, and when the plane bucks and tilts under her she launches herself again and falls in the fray.

She can _fly_? She can fucking _FLY_?!

Let them take care of themselves. Follow when you can. Cover the door. Cover the little ones.

The jet crashes, and Wanda throws out a hand to wrap Daisy in red as it comes down over her. Daisy powers the debris out of her way and into a few more of the soldier in the field. Bucky takes one more shot and… miss. Miss? Fucking hell, Daisy’s blasting around so much, he can’t account for it. _Shit_ , never fight with her again.

The rifle in his hand clicks, out. The soldier on the other side of the stairs had a rifle too. Get that. He breaks cover and dives for it and hears the crack behind him, feels the shot impact in his side and the rending flesh that should follow. They’re not using tranquilizers. That was a mistake.

He takes the other rifle. That guy doesn’t last long.

But most of Hydra’s focus is on the big guns. The best laid plans of fucking anybody get shot to shit when the superheroes show up and Bucky is just support staff. The field is a flurry of chaos and noise, bullets and clods of grass clouding the air. But they don’t have to get all these soldiers down, they just have to get a quinjet. The fight has been pulled away from their chosen target and it’s a short dash from the door of the cabin to the ramp of that quinjet and it’ll be much better cover.

Wide open space between. And here’s Bucky without a shield or superpowers.

Gotta do it though. He doesn’t have a shield, he _is_ a shield. He backs into the doorway and hollers over his shoulder to Fitz-Simmons.

“We’re moving! Get behind me. Stay low and stay close.”

He feels them come up behind him and stands, and moves forward at half speed so they can keep up. He turns to strafe facing the battle and keep Fitz-Simmons behind him. He fires more than he aims in front of himself, can’t hardly control the rifle with it awkwardly pinned in his upper arm, but it’s just cover fire to make the soldiers duck and it works. Cheap but effective. He hears the click of the rifle trying to fire empty but holds it up nonetheless. You’d be surprised how much even _seeing_ a gun can change the course of a fight.

He feels the pounding vibrations through his chest when one of their shots hits his left arm. Well that was lucky. Though the pain that follows suggests it just glanced off and connected anyway. Ah, well, the arm slowed it down. Couldn’t have expected their mad dash to go perfectly, could he. 

And adrenaline does the work of morphine. It’ll run out. But he’ll outlast it.

They reach the quinjet, and Ward stands on the ramp above them, mostly shielded in the doorway with his rifle ready. Bucky drops his and shoves Fitz-Simmons under the ramp and follows and Ward’s shots miss them. Good. Alright. Get Ward out of the way, and get into the jet. Easy peasy.

Then Ward raises his hand to the com in his ear, and a dark smile spreads on his face.

[“Longing,”] he shouts.

Bucky bares his teeth. Ward shouldn’t know his name, and _definitely_ shouldn’t know _that_.

[“Rusted,”] Ward says.

Well, here’s where we find out if Wanda really did it. 

[“Furnace,”] Ward says.

Bucky swings around the ramp and advances. He can’t feel the blankness from the words, can’t feel the loss of control. But worst to worst, Ward will be the target in front of him if the triggers still work.

[“Daybreak,”] Ward says.

Still nothing. Ward’s smile is fading. It isn’t working. He knows that it isn’t working.

[“Seventeen!”] Ward shouts desperately.

Nope. No reaction but anger. And with Bucky’s next step, Ward remembers his rifle still works.

Just bullets. Tranquilizers would have taken Bucky down. Pain won’t. Yet.

He’s still stronger than Grant Ward. Bucky grabs the barrel of the rifle and rips it from Ward’s hands, clubs the head of Hydra in the head and turns the rifle on the pilot and copilot. They’ve got pistols, and that hurts too, but they go down fast. Quinjet’s clear.

He wants to smash a fist into Grant Ward’s face on the floor one more time for good measure, asks for his left and doesn’t find it, settles for his right. Ward shifts under the blow in the way unconscious people do but he’s still breathing. Don’t kill him. Keep him. SHIELD will want him. And Bucky wants to know who’s on his com. Who’s got the fucking book.

But the goons can go. Pretty sure they’re dead. Not entirely sure. Don’t want them behind him. And he’s losing strength and Fitz-Simmons need to get in here ASAP. He can see his own blood on the floor of the quinjet. Kind of an unhealthy lot of it. He crouches on the ramp facing the battle with Ward’s rifle up in front of him and Fitz-Simmons behind him.

“Get in here,” he shouts. “Stay down!”

Fitz-Simmons run up the ramp and duck inside the jet. Steve barrels across the field, inexplicably catching all of Hydra’s shots on his shield, and making the soldiers regret letting him get so close when he pounds it out into them and slams them into uselessness. Mack tosses Steve his sidearm, and that’s alright, Steve’s a pretty good shot and too close in for a rifle.

“Get those assholes out,” Bucky says, pointing Fitz-Simmons to the downed soldiers.

They are extremely uncomfortable doing what he says and Simmons looks like she’s going to lose it and wretch on the floor but she doesn’t. Needs must, darlings. They manhandle the pilot to the top of the ramp and Bucky kicks him off. Fitz stops on his way back, staring down.

“Is that…” he mutters.

“Leave him be,” Bucky says.

But Fitz reaches for the co-pilot’s pistol. Son of a _bitch_ we don’t have _time_ for this!

And Simmons grabs Fitz’ arm. Says something Bucky can’t hear, because in the field the other quinjet lifts off, and the ground shakes with the impacts of the shots from its mounted weaponry, drawing closer to them. They finally got their shit together. And there’s nothing he can do about that but watch the channel cut in the grass approaching and pray the jet’s shield is still up.

Simmons takes the gun out of Fitz’ hand and tosses it out the door. Outside Wanda runs toward the jet in the air, what the fuck is she doing, she’s gone and lost her mind, and as she reaches its shadow she throws her hands up and a wave of red grabs at the gun turrets. She pulls her hands in and the turrets swing around, gouging back across the field and mowing through the slower moving soldiers.

Fitz-Simmons work together and haul the copilot out of the jet. Steve takes off toward Wanda and she releases the guns to wrap her threads around Steve and lift him up onto the back of the jet in the air. His shield bounces between the engines and they spin out, and the plane falls. Steve runs down its nose and jumps, rolling when it crashes, and coming to his feet beside Wanda.

It’s over in seconds. Their pursuit is neutralized. Bucky shouts out at his people.

“Fall back! Fall back!”

Steve repeats the call and heads turn, vectors change, Bucky’s people are coming to him. Good. Bucky covers their withdrawal as best he can. He gets shots off and can’t tell anymore if they hit, hears shots and can’t tell anymore if they hit. Probably better stop doing that. It’s been a very long day in a very short period of time and the parts of his brain that are already recognizing pain are clamoring for his attention. His aim is failing and he’s gonna hit someone he likes. 

Wanda runs up the ramp with Steve and drops down next to Bucky with her hands up. She reaches out and wraps Daisy and Mack in red as they pound toward the ramp. Steve’s got blood on his shoulder and running down his arm. But he’s up, and moving. Daisy’s leaning on Mack and limping bad. But they’re all present and accounted for. Alright. Mack slams the control for the ramp, and Wanda yanks Bucky back into the floor of the jet, and the ramp closes behind him.

Steve is still standing, and he glances across his team, silently counting heads. He gets the right number plus one. He spares only an instant on the prone form of Grant Ward and motions Wanda toward him. Steve speaks, but Bucky doesn’t know who he’s speaking to or what he’s saying. Someone responds.

Then Steve is talking to Bucky, must be, because Bucky hears his name.

“Bucky?” Steve says.

 _Bucky_.

“You with me?” Steve says.

 _You with me_?

 _I’m here_.

 _I love you_.

“Simmons, get over here, he’s hit bad,” someone says. Daisy. Sounds like Daisy.

Black clouds the center of Bucky’s vision and fights to the outside. He fights it back. But his head clangs and echoes. Mack takes the cockpit and the quinjet rumbles around them. Shots ring up from the field but ground level weaponry isn’t doing shit to a quinjet. They’re made to fight each other.

All present and accounted for. Someone’s flying and it isn’t Steve. Alright. They’re done. Done. Alright.

Bucky’s back fails and he collapses onto the floor as the pain finally closes in, blotting out everything else. He can hear but all he can see is tearing flashes and the darkness his mind is _trying_ to give him to cover it up.

“Wanda? What can you tell?” Steve says.

Wanda’s threads weave into Bucky’s mind, and they take the focus from the pain but God they feel like sleep and God he just wants to sleep.

“He’s here,” Wanda says. “He’s struggling but he’s here.”

“On his own?”

“Yes.”

Someone is rustling over him and touching him in that first-aid kind of way and the pain blossoms anew. Ah, please, God, Wanda, come on back, girl, that would really help… 

“Buck? Hey? I’m right here.”

Yeah, you too. Yeah, you’re here too. You’re here. I love you.

Red light closes in. And solid darkness.

*

Crazed bursts of pain and darkness and the rushing of jets take time away until Wanda’s red returns.

She’s not letting him dream. She’s working too hard just to keep pain at bay. It’s cold but it’s not that kind of cold. It’s the cold of needles and scalpels and being exposed to a clean room and bright white lights and sheets and coats. 

The thrumming beat so much a part of life that it isn’t felt until it stops, stops. He’s very, very still. And very, very annoyed by the idea that Hydra may have actually killed him this time.

And then he bangs back into the drumbeat. Ha. Gotcha again.

Wanda presses down on his mind, feels like falling, falling into himself. And then he’s sleeping alone.

*

*

*

“Buck?”

That voice. He knows that voice.

Gray static flickers through his head. But he can still hear the voice.

“Bucky? Bucky, please.”

Steve.

He tries to say it but the name sounds like static. He forces his eyes open, and the face is right. Though the man isn’t supposed to be so tall. His nerves rebel and his lids fall and he knows he’s got just a second before the darkness spreads out again.

Bucky grabs hold of the second and says, “We make it?”

“Yeah, we made it,” Steve says.

Alright. Alright. Good enough for now. He gives in to the static. And colorless darkness consumes him.

*

*

His eyes drift open. Light spears into them and he slams them closed again and groans softly.

Everything from his neck to his knees positively kills. It’s the far away ache of healing wounds, not the immediacy of open trauma, but that just softens the edges of the pain and makes all wounds blur together into a body of hurt. Hydra had been aiming for center mass and they’d fucking hit it.

He risks opening his eyes again. And he can, if he squints a bit. He’s covered in a hospital vestment, and he’s hooked up with the tubes and monitors of the long abed. Ugh, first order of business is getting rid of those. Yikes, he’s practically tied into the bed.

Though not actually tied. He’s not bound. He can sit up, and does, and turns his head and waits for the swimming colors to dissipate to take in his most recent surroundings following unconsciousness.

Glass walls, steel tables, computer monitors, medical equipment. Default assumption would be hospital, but for the brick beyond the glass with the eagle on the wall. And it’s the old eagle, with the words “Strategic Scientific Reserve” written around it. Last time he saw that was in Italy. They could be anywhere. But the SSR became SHIELD over time so he’s still with them. Presumably.

Steve is in a chair next to the bed, head cocked off to the side, sound asleep. That’s promising. They’re somewhere Steve feels confident falling asleep. And the shadows on his jaw are deeper. Some unknown number of additional days have passed and Steve still hasn’t shaved. Hm.

Bucky realizes once vertical that both arms responded to get him there. He lifts his left and doesn’t recognize it, the look or the feel. It’s still metal but the plates are shaped differently and slide over each other silently. He rolls his wrist and the motors don’t vibrate or hum. Interesting.

And the new arm is covered in subtle whorls of colored anodizing, tending to blue. He taps his middle finger to his thumb a few times to hear and feel the resonance of the metal. Looks like, feels like, sounds like, titanium, if he’s any judge, and he is. Good choice. If the Hydra model had been a freight truck then this is one of those European electric sports cars. _This_ is actually beautiful. 

And it doesn’t hurt anymore.

And that damned star is gone.

Fitz-Simmons cooked this up _quick_.

Maybe. What day is it…

The dings of his fingers tapping together startle Steve awake. Steve bolts up out of the chair and stops short at the side of the bed.

“Jesus,” Steve says. “Jesus you’re awake.”

Bucky clears his throat. Yeah, he’s been down a while. His mouth feels all gummy. Second order of business come his choice in the matter is a toothbrush.

“Jesus ain’t here,” Bucky croaks. “You’re stuck with me.”

Steve smiles. And holds his arms crossed tight on his chest. Because the obvious alternative is jumping across the bed and wrapping Bucky in his arms, and he can’t. Little red lights and glass lenses stare down at them from the corners of the room.

“Thought you were going to meet him there for minute, Buck.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

Steve picks up a bottle of water from the table by the chair and hands it to Bucky. Read his fucking mind. Well, no, Steve’s been here before, hasn’t he. He’s working from experience. Bucky drinks down half of the bottle, and it’s easier to talk.

“How long was I out?”

“Since the last time you woke up, two days. You were out for three before that.”

“Fuck.”

“Docs had to call Wanda in before they took you into surgery. Drugs weren’t cutting it.”

“I remember that.”

“She’s been keeping you under, with everything. She tried to let you wake up before, but they couldn’t, with everything with the serum, and, you’d’ve just been…”

Steve’s wavering. He’s fisting his hands in the sleeves of his shirt and trying _hard_ not to jump across the bed. But come on. They’ve been friends their whole lives. Steve can at least hug him. Bucky holds his right arm up.

Steve gives in. He leans over the bed and he doesn’t hold tight - much appreciated - but his chin is on Bucky’s shoulder and his lips are at his ear and he can say quietly, “It’s so good to see your eyes again.”

And it’s _so hard_ not to kiss him. To let him go and let him stand up. The hair on his face is a lot darker than the hair on his head. Who’d have thought?

The door slides open and Fitz-Simmons burst through it. They dart across the room, and a breath Bucky hadn’t even realized he’d been holding releases. God it’s good to see them too. They look good. They’re moving okay, they made it out okay. Breathe.

“Oh thank God you’re awake!” Simmons cries. Tears rim her eyes. Even Fitz is biting his knuckles and bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“We were so worried,” Simmons says.

“We didn’t know how quickly you’d be able to recover. Even Captain Rogers healing capabilities are largely unknown…” Fitz says.

“And we had no idea what the effects of the coma induced by miss Maximoff were going to be…”

“She only decided this morning to let you wake up if you could…”

“Seeing you so responsive so soon, oh goodness, we’re so relieved.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

Oh. Shit, there was a question in that torrent.

“We made it to the quinjet?” Bucky says.

“Oh good,” Fitz says. “Yes, miss Maximoff took over from there. Good.”

Simmons pulls a little flashlight out of her pocket and holds it up apologetically.

“I’m so sorry, but I have to.”

Bucky nods. She has to do the little tests to satisfy her that he is, indeed, conscious and responsive. She shines the light in his eyes and pokes at him and reads monitors and he tries to oblige.

“Where are we this time?” Bucky asks.

“Our home base,” Fitz says. “Our lab, specifically.”

“So you got any more of that… whatever you gave me before, laying around?” Bucky asks.

“Yes, of course,” Fitz says, and moves off to open a cabinet. “I’m not sure why it was so effective for you. Narcotics seemed to have no effect at all.”

“Don’t know what to tell you,” Bucky says. Though he can guess. Narcotics would have been too much of a relief. If Hydra could have prevented them from providing it to the asset, they would have.

Fitz hands him the pills and Bucky takes them with the rest of the water, and he says, “Thanks.” He thinks again and says, “And thanks for the new arm. Figure that must’ve been your doing. Feels good.”

“My God, thank _you_!” Simmons says. “You saved our lives!”

“Though I would like to run some tests now that you’re awake to make sure the integrity of the new system is up to snuff,” Fitz says. 

Simmons shoots him a glare.

“But that can wait,” Fitz says. “You seem to be controlling it well enough.”

“And Daisy worked on the new programming,” Simmons says. “We didn’t have to use any of Hydra’s old commands.”

“That’s… reassuring.”

It’s dizzying, is what it is. A typhoon of information. He’s awake and he’s processing but who’s at their best just after they wake up? Those kids need to switch to decaf.

Simmons takes his right arm carefully and starts removing the needles and the wires. He had been asleep about as long as he’d been at the Retreat. He wipes his right hand down his face, feels five days worth of irritation, and slots it away. Half the time they’ve known he was back, he’s been here. Five days doesn’t seem like much until you say it like that.

But everybody made it out okay. Wait… 

“How’s Mack?” Bucky asks.

“He’s fine,” Fitz says. “Just fine, cuts and bruises.”

“Daisy?”

“She took one in the leg but docs fixed her up,” Steve says.

Alright… Alright… 

“I’m fine too, by the way,” Steve says.

“‘Course you are,” Bucky says.

Steve points at his right shoulder.

“One in the shoulder but I’ll live, thanks for asking.”

Bucky scoffs. Wasn’t worried about Steve. Don’t have to worry about him anymore. He is protector, not protected. Everybody made it out okay. Or they’re okay now.

When Simmons finishes pulling his medical entrapment away Bucky says, “Not that this isn’t comfortable and all, but if you’ve finished can I get into clothes?”

“Got you covered,” Steve says, kicking a backpack at the side of the chair.

“Great. Now all I need is a moment of privacy?”

And quiet. Just a moment of quiet. He hasn’t seen himself yet.

“Of course,” Simmons says, and stands aside, and leads the others away. Steve lags behind, glancing back, but he leaves. Bucky _wants_ Steve to make a joke about it. Refuse to leave. What the hell privacy does he need from Steve? But Bucky knows why he won’t. And doesn’t.

Simmons pulls curtains behind her. Bucky sits up at the edge of the bed with his legs over the side, and that’s okay. He drops his feet to the floor, and that’s mostly okay. Rushing blood that hasn’t rushed in a while brings a little swirl in his vision that clears quickly, but that’s all. He can take the steps to the chair, he can bend over and retrieve the bag Steve left, though bending at the waist is a bad idea and he bends his knees instead. And he can stand again and set it on the table without losing vision. Alright. 

He pulls the hospital gown off and looks down at himself. Seven. He’s got Steve beat, even including this newest one Steve took. Seven shots between Bucky’s shoulders and his hips. He’s healed over, barely. The wounds are furious red and dimpled around the edges but they’ll be scars soon enough. Overwrote some of the Winter Soldier’s stories. 

No thanks to Hydra. Never any thanks to Hydra. But, some decades ago, some idiot had made Bucky Barnes tough enough to take whatever they were gonna throw at him. He’s still here.

He got them out. That’s this story. Everybody got out, they all got each other out, but maybe he’s evened the scale with Fitz-Simmons a little. They seem to think so.

Dressing brings no additional difficulty. Steve brought him real clothes with long sleeves to cover his arm and buttons and everything and they aren’t a problem. Bucky would guess it’s a spare set of his own but they look brand new. Of course Steve probably hasn’t been home to pack anything. All their stuff is at the cabin.

And none of that was even Bucky’s. Anything that was his got left on the beach.

And none of that was even his. Anything that was his got left in nineteen forty four. In a base like this one.

Stop it.

Under the socks and the shoes is a bar of soap and a comb and various personal paraphernalia suggesting Steve’s thoughtfulness. Much appreciated. It’s comforting to have, just to know he’s got a little self sufficiency in a little bag he can hang on to. Maybe Steve knew that. Maybe he was just being a Boy Scout, always prepared. Either way. The comb is helpful.

And rolling into the other stuff is an unopened blue-capped bottle of the same brand on the bedside table at the Retreat, suggesting Steve’s other thought processes. God dammit. Did SHIELD inspect this bag on the way in? Or did they trust Captain America not to bring a bomb onto base? God dammit. Maybe they can play it off as a joke.

He pulls the backpack up to his shoulder and opens the curtains. Anyone who wants or needs to come back, they can. SHIELD’s home base. The eagle looms over him on the wall. An old SSR base. Just can’t get away from those fuckers. They’ve been following him since Steve picked up the shield and started the fight.

Bucky takes the chair and experiments with what he can of the new arm, testing range of motion. He holds both arms out and the weight is comparable between the two. Or the support structures are just that good to make him think so. Maybe the arm is his. If it’s a gift that makes it his, right? Courtesy of people he can trust. Daisy wouldn’t have programmed it the same way Hydra did, to tap it into his mind and pull up violence for someone else’s purposes.

She wouldn’t… No, she wouldn’t.

And Ward had given him a test of the reset of his mind and he’d held. His body doesn’t belong to Hydra anymore. Not in the slightest. Maybe it belongs to him.

Assuming ownership hasn’t just been transferred to SHIELD.

Stop it. They wouldn’t do that.

Steve opens the door, flanked by Wanda. Poor girl looks pretty rough though she’s smiling through it. She’s been working her ass off for him. He ought to stand to greet them. There’s a companionship in the three of them, now. Just seeing them unravels some of the knots in his stomach. Friendships linked at Steve but bridging together as well. Ought to stand up, but… No, not right now. Bending at the waist still hurts. Fitz-Simmons meds should kick in soon.

“I owe you again,” Bucky says.

“You don’t owe me anything,” Wanda says.

Agent May opens the door almost before it has time to close. And even she looks like she’s smiling. That’s Godawful strange, so many people so happy to see him. He’d missed the days of their worry. Just has to try to cope with the effects.

“Bucky. It’s good to see you’re awake,” May says.

“Thank you.”

“Captain Rogers, the director would like a word with you,” May says.

Ah. So she’s not here to be sociable. And that’s a shame. Steve just got back. 

Steve nods, and says, “Back in a bit,” to Bucky. Hopefully true. Steve pulls a deck of cards out of his pocket, and tosses them to Wanda.

“Don’t bet with her,” Steve says.

“Cuz she’s psychic?” Bucky says.

“No, cuz she’s good.”

And Steve leaves with May. But leaving Bucky with Wanda isn’t so bad. 

Wanda pulls a chair away from one of Fitz-Simmons desks and sit across the little table from him. She’s staring at him, watching his eyes. There’s more she can see than the others could. He doesn’t know if she’s reading his mind but he knows it’s alright if she wants to check on him. And she realizes it somehow. Wanda raises one hand, red threads appearing and reaching toward his eyes. And the room doesn’t vanish. He sees it through a filter and feels a slight motion in his head and then she’s gone.

She nods, and opens the deck of cards, and shuffles them on the table.

[“We’ve been playing rummy for pennies,”] Wanda says. [“Steve hasn’t left this room for more than a few minutes since we got here. He owes me almost seventeen dollars.”]

If they’re on camera, speaking Russian won’t make a difference. SHIELD has translators. But it feels right, with her.

[“Are you that good, or was he that messed up?”]

[“Both. He’s actually quite sweet when he’s angry about you,”] Wanda says.

[“What did he have to be angry about?”]

[“Nothing. But he doesn’t know how to be afraid.”]

That’s true. Oh heavens above is that true.

Wanda deals out the cards and sits back.

[“So we’ll play without betting?”]

[“Sure. But we’re still keeping score. I’m not bad either.”]

He thinks. He didn’t used to be.

Thank heaven for the distraction. God knows what Steve and the director are arguing about. What happens now. Bucky rearranges his cards, apparently his eyes do remember what goes together, and he draws and it’s nothing he needs.

[“You’ve been stuck here too?”] Bucky says, and discards an equally extraneous card.

[“I’m not stuck,”] Wanda says. She lays down three of a kind right off the bat. Well that was just a lucky deal.

[“Just like playing cards?”]

[“I do like playing cards. It’s a challenge not to cheat.”]

Huh. That’s an interesting thought. Explore that, it’s better than the alternative. Wanda discards something he doesn’t need and he draws from the stack.

[“Are you reading people’s minds all the time?”]

[“I don’t pry. But sometimes things get through whether I want them to or not. Feelings, and impressions. I have to try to ignore them.”]

Draw, rearrange, discard. Yeah, it’s all still there. Nobody took anything away this time.

[“Oughta take you to Atlantic City.”]

[“I’ve been. It’s overrated.”]

Bucky laughs. It is at that.

[“Took a vacation from Avenging?”]

[“I think we were between missions that weekend. Natasha wanted an excuse to do her hair.”]

And _that’s_ an interesting thought. All the little stories of the Avengers in the between times, all the pictures that never make the news. The picture of agent Romanov dressed to the nines and cleaning house at a poker table is an amusing one.

Fitz-Simmons meds ought to be on the open market, God damn. After a couple of hands he’s still aching like he’s gone ten full rounds in the ring with someone above his weight class but he doesn’t feel like he’s been shot. And he can chat about the lights and the food in Atlantic City, and laugh when Wanda tells him about Clint Barton being politely asked to leave when the casino suspected, possibly rightly, that he was palming cards.

What are Steve and the director talking about? 

What’s the next destination? 

Or is he in holding here now? 

Really rather not. This base is a place that is a time and he feels like being here is being then and the old eagle is truly disorienting.

Beats a Russian prison with a big stick, though.

Stop it.

[“Steve win anything?”] Bucky asks.

[“He didn’t come with us. He doesn’t usually.”]

Oh. That’s unfortunate.

[“I think I saw him smile more in that one night at the Retreat than I had in months,”] Wanda says.

And Hydra blew it to bits. Fuck.

He picks up Wanda’s discarded jack and lays down a meld of face cards he’s pretty proud of.

[“The Avengers aren’t missing you two?”] Bucky says.

[“Maybe they are,”] Wanda says.

[“You’ve been here almost a week,”] Bucky says. [“They aren’t calling you back?”]

[“They are,”] Wanda says. [“Stop worrying about it and play.”]

Not going to happen. Wanda and Captain America are actively ignoring the Avengers? That won’t last.

[“Can’t believe I’m worth all this,”] Bucky mutters.

[“Then it’s a good thing that’s not your decision.”]

Wow. Steve’s rubbing off on her.

Nah, that’s not giving her enough credit. Wanda was already tough as nails before she even met Steve. Bucky knows that.

Wanda lays all of her cards down on the table.

[“Rummy.”]

Bucky drops his cards.

[“Fuck. My deal.”]

Daisy knocks on the glass, and then opens the door anyway. She’s got a brace on her right leg and she’s moving slow but she looks okay.

“Hope you built that door to last,” Bucky says.

“Hey!” Daisy says. “How are you doing?”

“Not well. I’m down by a hundred. You got a minute we’ll deal you in.”

“I don’t. You don’t, if you’re up for taking a walk. Coulson wants to talk to you.”

“Let’s find out.”

He stands, and that works, and he keeps the backpack on his shoulder. Wanda gathers up the cards, and Bucky squeezes her shoulder on the way out.

[“Next time in Atlantic City.”]

[“I’ll see you again before I leave.”]

If you say so.

Bucky follows Daisy down the hallway. Everything is brick and steel and bereft of windows. They’re probably underground. SHIELD didn’t even change out the old lights, they’re still that dull yellow that’s barely brighter than an open flame. 

He expects each step he takes to have the weight of boots and each motion the limitation of layers of wool, expects to see the colonel around the next corner and hear the young and firey Howard Stark cursing at his latest catastrophe. 

But no. This is just a remnant of that time. Repurposed. Refilled.

And all of those people are dead.

Daisy turns a corner and glass opens up in front of them. This room has windows that show civilization outside and below with the sun setting behind it. The base is built into a hill, then. Some underground, some above. Limited exits. 

Find them. Fast. This place gives him the creeps.

Coulson stands behind a heavy desk with a bank of television screens behind him, currently off. May is stationed at the side of the desk. Daisy hangs back at the door. And Steve sits in one of two chairs in front of them. Bucky assumes the other chair is his, and takes it.

“Bucky,” Coulson says. “It’s good to see you up and about. I hope you can accept our apology. Though, no apology is enough for how all this went down.”

“Sure,” Bucky says. Nothing better to say.

“And our thanks. If it was up to Fitz-Simmons you’d have a knighthood.”

Bucky shrugs. Ain’t nobody ever gonna call him “sir” for any reason. But that sounds about right for those two.

Coulson takes a deep breath, and makes brief eye contact with Steve that holds a whole silent conversation, and leans on his hands on his desk.

“Well, obviously, the Retreat has been compromised. And you won’t be able to continue staying there. But, Ward kind of did us a favor. We’ve released a full report to the FBI, the CIA and Interpol, including your debriefings and Ward’s attack on the Retreat. And we took the liberty of listing you among the dead.”

Makes sense. Makes sense. 

Hold on… Took the liberty of… 

“What?” Bucky says.

“Your heart did stop on the operating table,” Coulson says. “Of course that isn’t the end for everybody. But according to our report, you were killed in the firefight.”

Killed.

No, he wasn’t.

Was he?

“Oh,” Bucky says.

“As far as the world is concerned you died a hero,” May says.

“Again,” Steve says.

Again.

Killed. Again.

“Oh,” Bucky says.

Coulson says something else. Bucky doesn’t understand it.

There was a moment, on the bridge. When Steve ripped the Winter Soldier’s mask off and said Bucky’s name. A moment they took away from him in that same day to send him back out again. When the nobody he’d become was, for just an instant, somebody. When somebody rose up out of the blankness and brought him his childhood language to speak to the man from his childhood and when he heard it, when he saw it, he froze. Couldn’t be both.

“And Fitz-Simmons and miss Maximoff are telling us we no longer have a reason to consider you a danger to anyone,” Coulson says.

Bucky shakes his head slowly. No. No, they don’t.

“So you can stay here as long as you need, until you get back on your feet. We’ve got quarters available. After that, you’re ROR.”

ROR. Dead and ROR.

That moment on the bridge replays itself in reverse. With the old eagle flying in his face. Unhinging time.

He’s dead. Again. Nobody.

“You’ll understand that we can’t just let you disappear,” Coulson says. “We’ll expect you to check in and keep us apprised of your whereabouts. And we’ll expect you to continue debriefing with agent May. We need to know these things. Consider yourself on probation.”

“Oh,” Bucky says. No idea what he just said.

“And I’m sure Fitz-Simmons can give you recommendations for medical and psychiatric professionals with connections to SHIELD in Brooklyn,” Coulson says. He waves a hand. “Or wherever you wind up.”

Brooklyn. Right. Heard that. Brooklyn. Steve. Right. Right.

“We can discuss that later,” Coulson says.

Bucky nods. Discuss what? Nevermind.

He’s not dead to Steve. Came back from that once already.

But… Here? There’s a camera in the corner of this room too, eyes on them here, eyes on them out there. Feeding into Coulson’s television screens without a doubt. Watching and waiting for his reaction.

Steve’s eyes are on him too, with that waiting look. Steve isn’t surprised by this, Coulson must have already told him. But he’s not sure what Bucky’s reaction is going to be.

What the hell should it be? What does Bucky say to that? What the hell does a dead man say?

“I… I don’t know what to say,” Bucky says.

“Don’t thank us,” May says. “We should’ve dealt with Grant Ward.”

“Then… I won’t thank you…” Bucky says.

And there’s a moment of silence he’s meant to fill. Can’t. Nothing else to say. The others are probably glancing at each other but he’s not watching them. He’s looking past Steve’s shoulder out the window and wondering how far the drop down would be if he jumped.

“I appreciate how strange this must be to hear,” Coulson says. “I do.”

Bucky nods. Sounds like he’s supposed to.

He can go anywhere.

He can go nowhere.

The beach would be empty. Without pursuit.

He _can_ just disappear. He’s _dead_.

Steve stands and blocks Bucky’s view. Which means he’s meant to stand too. His eyes track back to Coulson, who’s reaching across his desk. Stand up. Take his hand. Feels like his body’s turned to lead.

“Please, if there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to call us,” Coulson says.

Anything he needs? They got a time machine?

“Daisy can show you down to quarters,” Coulson says.

Bucky nods.

Coulson holds out his hand to Steve.

“Thank you for all of your assistance as well, Captain Rogers.”

Assistance. They don’t know. Still think Steve was working for them. Bucky’s keeper. Not his lover.

SHIELD _gave_ it to them. Gave them the Retreat. Took it away just as easily.

Not their fault. Hydra.

No, SHIELD should’ve thought. Bucky should’ve thought. He should’ve known. Can’t trust SHIELD, Hydra is always watching them. Takes away anything SHIELD gives.

It’s over. Like it never happened.

Steve shakes Coulson’s hand but he doesn’t say anything. He’s already said his piece to SHIELD.

“And Captain, while I’ve got you here, mister Stark has been trying to get in contact with you,” Coulson says. “He’s told all of us that he would appreciate you calling him back. In rather more colorful language.”

Steve clears his throat and has the decency to look away from Bucky. Anything he needs? They got a replacement for Steve so he doesn’t have to go back to the Tower? Steve brought him back from the dead once… 

“I’ll catch up,” Steve says over his shoulder.

No replacement. Steve’s gonna leave. Can’t bring him back this time.

“Right,” Bucky says.

He’s been dismissed. Daisy opens the door for him, and leads him back down the hallway. It seems smaller this time. He can almost feel the brickwork scratching against his skin.

Gotta get out of here. How do you get out of here?

Ask Daisy. She’d know.

“How do you get out of here?” Bucky asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Exits. If there’s a fire, or something.”

“Oh. Uh, stairs here, stairs there, that door leads to the hangar and there’s like five staircases up in there. Stairs in the commissary, if you’re hungry. It’s on the way.”

His stomach is hungry. Not sure if his mouth is gonna get on board. But any plan works better on a full stomach. Running is easier with fuel.

“I could eat…” Bucky says.

Daisy breaks off from the hallway to a wider open room, with brighter fluorescents grafted onto the brick. Agents he doesn’t recognize mill around their own meals, a dozen or so of them. They glance at him, but they don’t approach him. It’s a buffet style deal, grab a plate and fill it and find a seat. That’s familiar enough that he doesn’t even notice what he’s putting on his plate. It’s what’s available. And he sits with Daisy at the biggest empty table he can see.

“We’ve got Ward down in the basement,” Daisy says. “He’s talking. That was a lucky break.”

“Seems like,” Bucky says.

A couple of bites sit alright. Talk. Don’t think. Talk. Get away when no one’s watching. Talk for now.

“Hey, what… What happened to you, with Ward?” Bucky asks.

“Me personally?” Daisy says. “I don’t want to talk about it. He seemed like the perfect agent, you know? And almost, kinda, the perfect guy. And then, Hydra, and then…”

A few more bites sit okay. Keep talking.

“Fitz-Simmons looked about ready to kill him with their bare hands,” Bucky says. “Wouldn’t have guessed they had it in ‘em.”

“Ward dropped Fitz-Simmons into the bottom of the ocean in a shipping container,” Daisy says quietly. “Simmons made it out alive. Fitz… They brought him back on the surface, but… It’s taken him a long time to recover.”

Oh. Oh if Bucky had known. Bucky can’t even think about eating any more. Oh if he’d known that Ward had done that, _Ward_ would be the dead man. 

Talking didn’t help.

Bucky hears “Brock Rumlow” and “the Avengers” from the same conversation at the adjoining table. Makes sense. That’s where Steve’s gonna be going. Hydra is still taking and taking from all of them.

“So, on a different topic,” Daisy says, with forced brightness, “I might have taken a few liberties myself.”

She pulls a folder stuffed with papers and cards out of her bag and hands it across the table. Bucky shakes his head, and flips the folder open. All of the papers bear the name “James Travis Hanley” and those with a place for it also bear Bucky’s face. He looks up, confused.

“You might want to lay low for a while, but that identity should stand up to a routine background check if you’re signing a lease or buying a car, or, whatever,” Daisy says. “Just don’t try to enlist again.”

“No chance,” Bucky mumbles.

He thumbs through the papers. James Hanley had been in the military too, apparently. So had his father. His passport looks old and much renewed and it’s a many colored thing. Just laid off from an engineering firm. Huh. This would justify a lot. He can talk about this.

“You could’ve gone with a different name,” Bucky says.

“I heard when you pick a fake name you want to keep your first name if it’s common enough so it sounds more natural when you’re introducing yourself.”

But his name is Bucky… 

And Daisy sounds so damned proud of herself. She oughta be, if this is as good as it looks. This, and his arm? SHIELD took her in for a reason.

Can he trust her? Can he trust them?

That vain little smile on Daisy, that doesn’t look she’s trying to pull one over on him. Just looks like she’s showing off.

“And I gotta be honest, I had no idea who you were,” Daisy says. “It was May who called it on the beach. And she said your name and I was like “Who?” and then she said…”

Bucky blinks slowly. Daisy trails off and shifts gears.

“Point is I don’t think you’re gonna get people stopping you on the street. And if you run into some history buff like Coulson who says “Hey, you look like that one guy,” you can just shrug and say “Yeah, I get that a lot.” Celebrities do it all the time. Probably wouldn’t work for, y’know, Captain America, but, it’d probably work for whatshisname… Hawkeye?”

“Barton,” Bucky supplies. Barton had been worth knowing about. But come to think of it, Bucky had never gotten a good look at the man’s face.

“Yeah, him. And you can just be some guy named James. The only name people know is…”

Daisy pauses, and mouths her next words without sound, but they’re pretty distinctive.

“Bucky Barnes.”

Some guy named James.

That’s too much to contemplate.

James Hanley has $22,000 in his savings account. Wonder whose money that actually is. Or if Daisy created it with electronic wizardry. Won’t last long in this day and age, starting from scratch. But it could get him started. Some guy named James?

“And, I’m putting a team together,” Daisy says. “For gifted and enhanced people like you and me. It’s not exactly legit but Coulson is turning a blind eye if you know what I mean. Sometimes the threats take a little more than bullets and bodies. And it wouldn’t be a nine-to-five, more like we’ll call you if we need you. If you’re looking for something to do.”

Miniature Avengers.

Underground instead of towering above it.

That’s entirely too much to contemplate. 

“I guess I ought to be,” Bucky says, for something to say. It’s true. But not the plan.

Daisy thinks she’s given him a new normal but she’s just given him $22,000. And that’s more than enough to disappear with. Good shoes and a good pack and clothes for the weather and cash in his pockets and then burn the papers. Burn James Travis Hanley and leave him with James Buchanan Barnes. SHIELD has shit to do, and with even the CIA and Interpol thinking he’s dead, he can truly vanish.

He’s got good shoes already. And a good pack. Steve gave them to him.

Let Steve go back to Stark. Let Steve chase Brock Rumlow and take care of the world. The eyes on Steve wouldn’t be able to stay away from Bucky. That’s not safe.

But Steve said, “The next time we’re in the city…”

But he hadn’t really believed that. Couldn’t. Yeah, right, sure, he’s just going to stroll down the streets of New York with Captain America and get a taco. Sure. Saints preserve us… 

Daisy’s still talking. “Ward was only one of the heads of Hydra,” she says. “And if he knew what to say to you…”

Oh. Right.

“They’ve got the book,” Bucky says.

“He’s giving us intel. We’re going after them. We could really use you.”

They could. He could help. He’s got his arm back, maybe even a better one, and he’s got all of the knowledge Hydra couldn’t take away from him. He could be a converted hero. Join the likes of Wanda and Romanov, taking the skills of the enemy back to bite them in the ass. 

And it’s not good if that book is out there. That’s not good for anybody. He can help them take down what’s left of Hydra before they do more damage.

“I’ll think about it,” Bucky says.

But it would mean staying in the cameras. Sticking close to SHIELD with Hydra watching. The agents at the table next to them look up, glance curiously between him and Daisy, and go back to their meals. He’d be watched. Surrounded. No. Can’t do that. Gotta get out of here.

But the face staring up at him from Daisy’s papers isn’t the face from the history books. It isn’t even the face from Steve’s sketchbook. How he looks here, how the papers make him look, he’s got a present human person named James in his hands. And the agents don’t look like they recognize him. Didn’t hear his name. They’re just wondering who’s sitting with Daisy.

And Steve said, “Mine.”

No. That just means he’s gotta get out of here before Steve has a chance to stop him. All Steve has to do is say “Stay” and that’s what Bucky would do. Can’t give him the opportunity. Steve’s got shit to do. Won’t be around. Won’t be with him.

Bucky has been sitting silently pushing food around with his fork and Daisy clears her throat and pushes back from the table.

“Sorry to throw so much at you at once,” Daisy says.

“No, it’s… Thanks. For everything.”

“Don’t mention it. Stairs are there,” Daisy says, and points, and picks up their plates. Thanks. Noted.

She takes him down another hallway, still solid without windows. It’s difficult to control his eyes. They jump from door to door, corner to corner, mapping the facility and the cameras and the escapes. Until Daisy stops in front of a door and he almost runs right into her.

“There’s no one in this one so it’s all yours,” Daisy says. “Hope to see you around, James.”

And she smiles. He has to work at returning it. Not sure he got it right. Last person called him James was his mother. Sounds wrong.

Another sterile little room, all clean edges scrubbed of character. _Still_ no windows. Fuck. He drops the folder on the bedside table. He almost wants to prop the door open, hard to believe there’s enough air down here. But there’s cameras in the hallways and eyes on agents and no, that’s not really an option.

What there _is_ is a sink. And toothpaste. And the razor in Steve’s pack. His pack. Might as well use those. They’re free. And considering the upkeep of the Winter Soldier he is _less_ recognizable if he’s cleaned up. Life’s little duties do - precisely - As the very least were infinite - to me - 

He swings the pack around on his shoulder and finds the toothbrush and the razor, and brushes his teeth first. Might as well feel a little more human.

A tone plays through the room, like an electronic clock striking one. Really hoping they don’t actually chime the hours around here. He’s out much faster if he’s gonna have to listen to that. But it’s not one o’clock and the tone sounds only once. Weird. 

He turns on the hot water to shave. His hand shakes. He nicks himself on the curve of his jaw. Steve’s fingerprints are long gone. The tone plays again. Doesn’t sound insistent enough to be an alarm. He’ll figure it out if it matters.

It plays twice as he’s wiping his face. He puts the toothbrush and the razor in the pack and pulls it up to his back. Opens the folder, and finds the driver’s license and the credit cards. 

They seem to drag out of the folder on elastic and want to spring back, or his hand is fighting him to put them back. His hand knows what he intends to do and doesn’t want to let him. 

But the little squares of plastic are a focus out of dizzying possibilities. SHIELD, Stark, Ward, Daisy. Steve. 

His mind is on elastic, springing back and forth and it can only power his hands and his feet. To take and to walk. To pack and to leave. Leave. Get out. Get _out_. And that ringing isn’t helping.

Knuckles rap on the door outside and Bucky flinches as if struck by the sound. Fuck. And it’s the only exit too. Fuck. 

Breathe. It’s probably Daisy again. Maybe she left something out of the folder. 

Breathe. Maybe it’s Wanda. Still up and wants to play cards. 

Breathe. Open the door.

And it’s Steve. Because of course it is. And then the sound processes.

“Sorry,” Bucky says. “Didn’t sound like a doorbell.”

Fuck, he is out of it. He should’ve recognized that right off.

“It’s alright,” Steve says. “Can I come in?”

No. Bucky had just about gotten what he needed to leave. The plastic cards in his hand and the exits and the wherewithal.

But it’s _Steve_.

Bucky _hates_ that he had to ask. Couldn’t just walk in. The camera on the wall over his shoulder turns a long arc, pauses and returns.

Yes.

Bucky stands out of the doorway and motions Steve in. The door closes behind him. But the room doesn’t feel like a fortress. He can see what he knows through the walls, they’re surrounded by milling agents and the alertness of SHIELD and facing a doorbell that might actually ring.

And Bucky talks first. Gotta start the conversation to steer it. Gotta steer it to end it.

“You talked to Stark?” Bucky says.

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“He’ll cool down.”

“Ah.”

Steve takes a step closer and Bucky takes a step back. Don’t. Don’t start. These walls can’t hold them.

“So you’re heading back to the Tower,” Bucky says, as a statement rather than a question. He is. He must be going back.

“In the morning,” Steve says.

He is. 

But not right now. 

Bucky could have one last night with him.

No. Can’t. Can’t start that now and then try to get out later. Let Steve out now. Give him the out and let him take it.

“Guess the vacation’s over,” Bucky says. “Fun while it lasted.”

“Hey,” Steve says, and takes another step toward him. “You make it sound like we’re never gonna see each other again.”

Bucky ought to say, _Probably safer that way_ , but can’t bring himself to. Sarcasm comes first to say the same thing. And he takes another step away.

“What’re we gonna do, have lunch together at the Tower?”

Steve’s eyes jump between the pack on Bucky’s shoulders and Bucky’s hand. He has been gesturing with the driver’s license and the credit cards still pinned between his fingers.

“There’s other places to have lunch,” Steve says carefully.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Bucky says, and shoves the cards in his pocket. “You just gonna tell the Avengers you’re stepping out to powder your nose?”

Steve’s brow draws in. He’s saying one thing when he speaks, but his eyes say “What the hell are you doing?” over and over. Steve is being deliberately obtuse if he doesn’t know. Bucky doesn’t feel like he should have to say.

“I’ll tell them whatever I want,” Steve says. “There’s enough skeletons in enough closets in that Tower that nobody’s gonna kick up a fuss.”

“Mutually assured destruction. Great. Works every time.”

“Yeah, Buck, it actually kinda does.”

Bucky turns away and faces the wall. God dammit. Steve’s not gonna take the out. He will actually make Bucky say.

“We’re not alone anymore, Steve,” Bucky says. Can’t look at him and say it. “SHIELD gave us a great couple of days but Hydra shot that to hell like everything else. Honestly I should’ve seen that coming. Whatever happened, whatever we had, we can’t keep that up out here.”

“Whatever we had…” Steve starts.

Steve bites off the rest of that sentence, and Bucky can hear his clothes rustle, settling his stance. He’s standing on anger with both feet. Yeah Bucky probably shouldn’t have said that, he didn’t really mean it, what they had was _everything_ but Steve’s not gonna walk away for his own good. Doesn’t know how.

“So you’re just gonna take off?” Steve says.

Well it’s not like he wants to but yeah. He’s _dead_. 

Jesus _why_ is Steve gonna make this difficult. It’s hard for Bucky to say, of course it is, but the world made it true, not him. Christ Steve is the best thing that could’ve happened to him, but _why_ is it hard for _Steve_?

Bucky rounds on him.

“I’m _dead_ ,” Bucky says. Dammit he should’ve said no when Steve asked to come in. “Again, as you pointed out. I’m not a soldier. I’m not an Avenger. I’m _dead_!”

Steve recoils, and holds his hands up, palms out.

“Buck…”

Bucky raises his left, pointing an accusing finger at Steve, and it’s silent but he can still hear the whirring in his head. He’s going to start yelling at Steve. Can feel it. Can’t stop it. Bucky is already going to hell when he dies. Might as well add heresy to the list of reasons why.

“And you’re not! And you’re not gonna stop! You can’t stop! You’re gonna throw yourself into every stupid fight til one finally kills you! And you’re gonna be up there in the Tower and on the news and sticking your nose into shit sniffing for world peace. And whatever the hell I’m doing it’s not gonna be that! We don’t get to have malts down at the shop, Steve!”

“I don’t care!” Steve shouts.

It takes Bucky a second to process what Steve said and he’s speaking again before it finalizes.

“You know what I was thinking?” Steve says. “I was thinking it’s gonna be mighty strange calling you James!”

Wait. What?

“You think I was just talking shit the whole time?” Steve says. “You think I only meant it while we were there and I don’t fucking mean it here?”

Well no but… Well, yeah, actually, but… 

“Yeah, I’ll keep up the fight if I think there’s still some good I can do out there, and right now the Avengers is the best way for me to do that. But dammit I’m _here_! I’ve _been_ here! And even I’m not on mission every day!”

Well that’s beside the point, but… Well actually that is a good point… 

“I don’t… I haven’t tried to…” Steve sputters, waving a hand beckoning a full sentence, “Look, I don’t know what downtime looks like. You were always the one with the… with the tickets and the invitations and the ideas. I always had the fight but I… I didn’t always have you!”

Wait, hang on. Bucky is trailing behind, catching up to what Steve is saying, he’s so loud and talking so fast, but Steve has thought about this… And Wanda said, Steve doesn’t usually go out with them… And Steve’s saying, that it’s because… 

“I told you, I’m flying blind here. I don’t know, we’ll get lunch delivered. And, catch a baseball game on cable, I don’t know. But I _know_ I’m not done with you.”

Shit. That sounds _true_.

Steve closes the distance between them in slow strides. And Bucky doesn’t step away. Can’t. Steve isn’t done with him? Fuck. He tried. He tried to give Steve an out and Steve had to go and give him an in.

“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” Steve says.

That’s true.

Oh wait God no don’t say it.

“I love you, Buck.”

Dammit.

And dammit he knew, he knew this was gonna happen. All it took was Steve’s eyes. His eyes and his voice, seeing it, and hearing it. Who Steve thinks he is. What Steve says is true, true for Bucky because it’s Steve saying it and Steve can’t keep truth from shining out of himself.

Steve reaches out and wraps his hand around the strap of the pack on Bucky’s shoulder.

“You run, I’ll find you,” Steve says.

“You tried before,” Bucky says, but his heart isn’t in it.

“I know you better now.”

Yeah he does. And Steve is many things. But among them is bull-headed. Bucky was done for as soon as he knocked on the door. Wasn’t even worth the wasted time spent trying to pretend it would go any other way.

Steve pulls the strap to the side. Bucky lets the pack fall from his shoulder. Steve drops it on the floor.

And he takes Bucky’s hand. His left. And Bucky can _feel_ it, more of it anyway. The distance between himself and sensation is less like a cast and more like a glove. He owes Fitz-Simmons his fucking first born, for being able to feel Steve’s hand.

“Doesn’t feel as cold,” Steve says, idly touching the metal.

“Yeah, titanium is like that,” Bucky says. “It’s why it’s blue, too.”

“I guess it is a little. I’m sure they could sand it off if you wanted.”

“Nah, I like it. I look good in blue.”

“You look good in anything,” Steve says.

Alright. That’s enough. Give it up. Fucking kiss him.

Bucky reaches up with his other hand and pulls Steve over by the back of his neck. And Steve goes along with a thankful little moan that fucking _hurts_ it sounds so good. Their lips meet with more force than necessary, both of them aiming too eagerly at the place the other had just been and crashing in the middle. A spark of pain lights in Bucky’s lower lip, trapped between his teeth and Steve’s.

And he must be real for that to happen. He can’t be dead. He can’t be gone. He has to be here. Now. And Steve is kissing him. Not in a freezing dream but a warm present.

 _God_ his lips feel _beautiful_ , it’s been _days_ and it feels like it even if he was asleep for most of it. And the hair on Steve’s face tickling Bucky’s clean shaven makes him shiver.

Steve’s arms go up tight around Bucky’s back and he buries his face in his shoulder. Not so nice, ow, ow, that hurts baby. Bucky’s gonna have to say something, but not right now. He’ll deal with the soreness in his torso for Steve’s embrace. Feels like Steve needs it.

“Take it back,” Steve says quietly.

Which part? That was a bit of a blowout and there’s a couple things he’d unsay.

“Which part?” Bucky says.

“Whatever we had… This isn’t over,” Steve says.

It _almost_ sounds like a question. Steve’s not sure. But he’s hoping. Steve was scared. Angry because he didn’t know how to be. Bucky scared him, again. Has to bring him back from fear, again. 

Because Steve will do _epic_ stupid things for hope. And if one of those stupid things is Bucky… Y’know, it’d probably be less of a news story if he went along quietly and didn’t make Captain America chase him. Since he’s gonna anyway.

Bucky’s arms lift to wrap around Steve’s neck. 

“I take it back,” Bucky says.

And Steve kisses him, soft and searching. Bucky tries to show him what he’s looking for, tries to find it himself. Yes, I’m here. Yes, it’s real. No, this isn’t over. They gather confidence when neither pulls away until their mouths meld open and their chests are heaving together panting for each other and it’s pretty clear. This isn’t over.

They’re uncoordinated in relief, stepping around the room kissing, trying to take a step closer and losing an even footing and stepping to the side to stay stable. Bucky steps on the pack at his feet and his foot slides, his shoulders and the back of his head bump into the wall and his teeth clack against Steve’s. Steve grimaces involuntarily and pulls back, and runs his tongue along his teeth checking for the taste of blood, and when their eyes meet over the ridiculous face he just pulled they both break into grins. Yeah, this has to be real.

Bucky trails his fingers through the short hairs at the back of Steve’s neck. And strikes out for hope.

“So…” Bucky says, “Captain America is seeing some guy named James.”

“Yeah, that’s about the long and the short of it.”

Steve stands up straight, leaving Bucky leaning on the wall, but keeping him in a loose embrace. Steve’s hands meander together at the small of Bucky’s back, mindless comfortable caresses maintaining.

“I’m not suggesting a press release, but…” Steve says. “People find out? Let ‘em. The hell are they gonna do? Worst that can happen to us has already happened.”

“That’s tempting fate, talking like that.”

“Fate shows up, I’ll tell him what’s what.”

Bucky slips one finger around and straightens the collar of Steve’s shirt, for no reason other than to touch him. Steve’s a private person, sure, but he’s not gonna tell lies and maybe there’s a difference between being private and keeping secrets.

“But you’ll call me Bucky when we’re alone.”

“‘Course. It’s your name.”

Bucky smiles. He takes James Hanley’s cards back out of his pocket and drops them in the folder.

SHIELD did him a favor. SHIELD simplified things with paperwork, not an easy task in the best of circumstances. How do you prosecute a dead man? You can’t. How do you kill a dead man? You can’t. Maybe even Hydra thinks he’s dead. If the paperwork is coming out of SHIELD, maybe they aren’t still looking for him at all. 

He should’ve figured that out on his own. Maybe would’ve, when the shock wore off. And he was ten miles down the road and still running.

And they gave him even more to this life than Steve. Somehow.

“Daisy offered me a job,” Bucky says. “Kind of a freelance hero gig.”

“You should take it. It’d do you good to be working for the good guys again.”

Bucky shrugs. Good guys is frequently a matter of point of view. But yeah, Daisy qualifies as good by comparison to his last job.

“Guess I have to do something to pay rent if you’re not gonna let me live in a tent on the beach again.”

“Which I won’t.”

Paying rent. Christ he hadn’t imagined having to do that again. Life was so much simpler on the beach. But if he was there he couldn’t have this… God damn Steve. Yeah, Bucky’s gonna have to figure out paychecks and bills again.

But not right now. One thing at a time. Steve’s thumbs hook under the hem of Bucky’s shirt, and his hands slip up to touch the skin of his back.

“And if you get a place in the city, I’ll have you to come home to,” Steve says.

God _damn_ him. He makes the impossible sound so _real_. A place in the city? _Home_?

But even Daisy hadn’t recognized Bucky on sight. He’s only known to SHIELD, and only to the old guard at that. There are only so many agents in the world been around as long as May. Bucky can keep his head down. He knows how to be anonymous in a crowd. Steve doesn’t. Can’t. And okay so maybe they shouldn’t go to a baseball game and sit in a crowded stadium together, but… If he’s got a place in the city, and Steve’s coming over to watch the game on TV… Yeah, that might work… 

He should’ve thought of that on his own. Maybe he would’ve. But he didn’t have to. Steve said it.

“When I find a place I’ll get you a key,” Bucky says.

Steve smiles. Steve’s forearms up to his elbows slide under Bucky’s shirt, and that hikes it up in the front too, and Steve’s got that sparkle in his eyes suggesting that he’s not gonna pull it back down.

“Leave me a drawer in your dresser,” Steve says.

“Oh, you want a shelf in the bathroom, too?” Bucky says playfully. As if it’s an imposition. But he’s still got to find out if they can settle back from fear into themselves and the friendly confrontation.

Steve shakes his head, and pulls his arms out from under Bucky’s shirt to start at the bottom undoing the buttons.

“If you can spare it,” Steve chuckles.

Yep. Confirmed. Bucky can pretend to resist and Steve knows the difference.

“We’ll see.”

Steve pauses two buttons up, looks aside like he’d just remembered something, and walks away to the door. He taps commands into the keypad and turns back.

“What’d you do?” Bucky says.

“Locked the door. Turned off the doorbell.”

“Oh,” Bucky says. Fantastic. He’s got one more night with him. 

Before Steve reaches him again Bucky says, “Turn off the lights.”

Steve looks like he’s going to argue for a second, but he lets it go and flicks the switch on the wall and the lights go out. Bucky can have what he asks for. Occasionally.

And the room in darkness could be anywhere. Bucky feels Steve in front of him before his eyes adjust, a patch of moving darkness that wraps around him. But he knows it, knows that wide shape that has become familiar. He can’t see and can’t see through the walls anymore. Steve kisses him and they could be anywhere. In Brooklyn, in the mountains, in some unknown place in the future where they _will_ be.

Bucky pulls Steve’s shirt off and he feels like he can inhale him, breathing in the warm air that surrounds his skin when he ducks into the curve of Steve’s neck. Steve still has that same stuff in his hair, with the sharp fruit smell. Bucky can taste him, he knows that, part his lips and mouth up Steve’s neck, hear him sigh. He knows what Steve Rogers tastes like. Knows what _much_ of Steve Rogers tastes like.

And Steve doesn’t need light to finish unbuttoning Bucky’s shirt and draw it down his arms. Steve won’t see the new wounds yet. Good. He can see later, when they’re remembering this from somewhere else and it’s just the beginning of a longer story.

“So I got one more night with you,” Bucky says.

“You got plenty more nights with me, Buck. Listen to me when I talk to you.”

Bucky holds him close, soaking up what he can’t see. He was listening. Still trying to believe it. The skin on Steve’s neck roughens to the hair on his face under Bucky’s lips. That’s different. He likes how it looks, come to find out he likes how it feels too. Despite all logic telling him it would be so he’s almost surprised to feel it, that at that point of discovery Steve doesn’t vaporize and vanish.

He will, in the morning.

Stop it.

 _I’m not done with you_.

That. Remember that.

Steve turns his head and his mouth is on Bucky’s. And trapping him against the wall with his tongue. Steve’s starting to breathe faster, starting to take more with his hands, ramping up. Steve’s fingernails rake across Bucky’s shoulder and he winces. Okay, now he’s got to say something. Before Steve really gets going.

“Hey,” Bucky says. “Go easy on me, would you? I got shot.”

Steve’s hands move to Bucky’s fly, and open it while he speaks.

“So did I,” Steve says.

“I got shot a lot,” Bucky says. “I was in a coma.”

“Still got you beat on that one,” Steve says.

“That’s debatable,” Bucky says.

He gasps when cool air rushes in around his groin, his pants and shorts slithering to the floor. Steve steps into him and Bucky’s cock is pinned up against Steve’s zipper and his own erection straining against insufficient fabric for contact.

“And… you’ve… had years to recover,” Bucky says, barely following his own sentence. “Let me recover… then you can keep… knocking me around… okay?”

Steve’s hands span around Bucky’s ass, and he brings one knee up to the wall between his legs, purposely chafing against Bucky’s thigh with his pants and digging into his hip with the buckle of his belt.

“I have to wait years?” Steve says.

Bucky sucks in an uncomfortable sound that twists into a moan when Steve squeezes and _just_ parts the cheeks of his ass to introduce the tips of his fingers. Oh, yes, they’re still gonna fuck. Just, maybe not rough this time?

“Days… would be nice,” Bucky mumbles. “Hours is… a little rough… even for you.”

One of Steve’s hands abandons his ass, and his fingers slip up Bucky’s scalp under his hair. Bucky sighs and softens in his touch.

“Just take it easy,” Bucky whispers. “Please.”

“I’ll be gentle,” Steve says quietly. Though the soft gravel in his voice promises gentle to be so much worse than rough.

Steve wraps his arm around Bucky’s waist and lifts him away from the wall and turn steps them over to the bed. He backs Bucky into it until his knees buckle and he sits, and Bucky hears the little metallic sounds of Steve’s pants. There’s a sliver of light under the door, a few points on the walls from electronics, just enough to reveal a hazy outline approaching him, climbing into the bed next to him, and reaching for him.

Steve draws Bucky down by his hair. But he is gentle about it. They lie out together, and the necessity of moving slowly so they don’t elbow each other somewhere sensitive they can’t see becomes wonderful. Bucky’s left arm really doesn’t feel as cold, and _God_ he wants to know, needs to know, and it probably won’t be unpleasant if he’s touching Steve with it. 

Bucky stays away from Steve’s right shoulder and takes in the rest of him. He has time to absorb every touch bringing them into alignment, fitting into each other and the sheets. And he can process it. Feels like he’s touching Steve over his shirt, one that hardly hides anything of his shape and the firm curve of muscle, _oh_ heavens above he feels amazing under both of Bucky’s hands. Fitz-Simmons have joined Wanda in Bucky’s personal pantheon.

Their blind navigation and Steve’s guiding hands in his hair and on his body end with Steve lying on his back and Bucky over him with his legs wide around Steve’s hips, stretched out on his chest to kiss him even if it hurts his own a bit to do it. Steve kisses him deep and separates their mouths, pulls him back in and kisses him again. Every one of his kisses takes ages and Steve makes Bucky wait but when they come they’re _heaven_.

Between the planes of their stomachs their cocks are pressed together, and every time Steve pulls Bucky up for a kiss they’re rocking against each other. Steve’s thighs tense between Bucky’s legs and the contact is much more deliberate, and Bucky rolls his hips down in response. They’re rutting against each other in slow motion with every kiss.

How often can he get Steve to leave the lights off? There’s hardly a separation between them in the darkness, hardly a border at their skin.

Then Steve’s panting fast, and Bucky can’t see Steve’s eyes cross but he can hear it in his voice.

“Awh, Christ…” Steve grumbles.

And his thighs relax. He holds Bucky in place in a light kiss and stops rubbing them together between, and forces out slow and shuddering breaths instead of the panting. Backing down a bit? Steve can get off like this. Maybe that’s not how he wants it.

Bucky brushes his lips and the curve of his cheek across Steve’s face, following lines to speak softly in his ear, and asks, “What do you want?”

Even though he half expects Steve to just say, “You.”

But Steve is cleverer than that. Bucky’s right here and asking a more specific question. Steve cups his hands under Bucky’s ass and pulls him up, and Steve’s cock slips out from under him and burns a straight line up the cleft of his ass.

“I want you like this,” Steve says. “Stay on top. Off your chest.”

Smart man. Smart, sweet man.

Bucky moves off and finds his pack on the floor. The bottle has a distinctive shape, and he can locate it without light. Open it without light, drop the wrapper on the floor, who cares, pick it up later. Then think while he’s on his feet and reach back to the bar over the sink for the hand towel. They’ve both gotta be smart. And find his way back to the bed, feel along Steve’s body to remember his placement and take his place over him again. Steve shifts and settles and strokes his thighs, waiting.

Well, if Bucky’s on top, he gets to figure this out. He drizzles the lubrication onto his fingers - right hand, _right_ hand, he’s not gonna try to do this with metal - and reaches back and slicks those fingertips across his asshole. His cock jumps just feeling his own fingers, he knew his mind was right with getting fucked right now but it’s good to know his body is so eager to fall in line. 

He squeezes the bottle out into his hand again and holds the lubrication in his palm until he feels it warm before he moves on to Steve’s cock. Steve moans and twitches in his wet hand. Bucky smiles and strokes him for a moment, enjoys the slip of his skin and the sounds he makes before he straightens on his knees and rises over him.

He holds Steve’s cock still and tilts his hips, feels the tip push against his asshole and wills himself to relax. He’s pretty sure… felt like… Yeah, if he goes slow, he doesn’t _need_ Steve’s fingers to open him up first. Steve’s tip enters him easily and warmth rushes through him. He lifts his hips and lowers them to feel that again. It’s exquisite, the minute slide of skin and hot penetration.

Steve’s breath rushes in and he digs the tips of his fingers into Bucky’s hips.

“You take it easy,” Steve says.

“I know, you won’t let me hurt myself,” Bucky says. “I know. I won’t.”

Didn’t intend to. Though he wishes there was a switch to flick or a button to press to just _get there_ without having to work up to it. 

He was right at least. He can shift a little at a time, so long as Steve doesn’t move, and he doesn’t. He can tilt down, pull back when his body gives him warning, move on again when it shuts up. Feels like it takes _forever_ but Steve’s harder than a Finnish crossword waiting and Bucky’s pretty sure he’s got all the time in the world.

He doesn’t. But he’s got enough.

And finally he can sit down until he’s taken Steve in to his base, hears him moan and feels his hips flex up. Bucky retreats completely, then takes Steve in again, a full long slide from the flare at his head shoving him open to the deep fullness of sitting flush on top of him. God that was good, do that again. _God_ that’s good, every inch of that is good. 

Steve lets him do it one more time before he grabs Bucky’s hips and holds him down. Steve plants his feet and raises his knees just enough to get leverage, and rocks his hips and presses his cock back and forth inside him. And he’s groaning inane open mouthed sounds doing that and Bucky listens. Picks up the motion. More of an arc, more forward and back, less up and down. Bucky can feel it like he can fucking _see_ it, the line of Steve’s cock dragging inside him, friction and pressure setting off little colored lights all along its length. _Jesus_ that’s it, _wow_ that’s it, keep doing that.

Steve’s hands on Bucky’s hips make requests for speed and tempo and Bucky obliges. Steve doesn’t take over, he just helps, matching Bucky’s rhythm and keeping it. But Bucky can hear his hair rustling on the pillow, he’s twisting his head back and forth in the throws of it and he’s probably doing a lot of work resisting the urge to slam Bucky around and just take it. He said he’d be gentle. And Steve doesn’t tell lies.

Until he stiffens and stills and his fingers curl up to the nails in the flesh of Bucky’s ass.

“You keep doing that I’m gonna come,” Steve mutters.

Still doesn’t sound like he wants to. Alright. No rush.

Bucky shifts his knees back and leans forward, retreating to a shallower depth. He plays the head of Steve’s cock barely inside himself, moves off and just takes him in again. Steve’s breaths deepen and his thighs relax, he’s backing off the cusp, that’s what he wanted. Alright. Bucky can just have this for a bit.

He might actually be able to get off like this. He wraps his hand around his own cock, checking in with his body and its intentions and there’s a definite possibility. Yeah, yeah he can. Probably gonna have to do it himself but he can. He can feel that trail of sensation leading away from Steve’s head rubbing his open asshole and his grip on himself, the one that shows it’s only a matter of time if he keeps it up.

So he keeps it up. He bobs on the end of Steve’s cock and holds himself up on his left arm and closes his eyes, even though it’s dark it still feels easier. He strokes himself slowly, don’t rush, don’t rush, Steve’s not going anywhere. Steve drapes his hands on the sides of Bucky’s neck, touching him softly, but he doesn’t stop Bucky from getting himself off on his cock.

“Go on,” Steve says. “Come on.”

Steve doesn’t _want_ to stop him. Steve can’t see him, can’t watch his face, but he can hear him so Bucky lets his mouth run. Says, “Oh, God,” and “Oh, yes,” and says Steve’s name. Says, “God your cock feels good,” and _means_ it.

He has to speed his hand to keep moving down that trail. Steve moves one of his hands down between their legs and grips the base of his own cock and holds himself straight, lifts his hips tiny bits off of the bed to pierce Bucky and withdraw again and again. He figured that out. And Bucky can see the head of that trail, feel gathering pressure narrowing to a destination.

And Steve _really_ likes making him ask for it… Steve’s not _making_ him this time, but… No, Bucky still _wants_ to ask. To have Steve’s approval in it.

“I’m so close…” Bucky whimpers. “You gonna let me come?”

Steve groans deep in his chest and his hand on Bucky’s neck wraps up into his hair.

“Yes. God yes.”

“Give me your hand. Touch me, please.”

Bucky’s so close a warm breeze would’ve set him off. But Steve wraps his hand around Bucky’s cock and takes over stroking him and Bucky wails. It’s a little thing but having Steve finish him off is perfect. And Bucky lets his trembling thighs drop him down completely over Steve when his orgasm hits and feels the focused sensation flash out to every part of him and Bucky’s crying out to God and Steve is answering and it’s the same damn thing.

And then his whole body is trembling, and he lies out on Steve’s chest. Steve’s arms move around them, out from between them, shuffling fabric that sounds like the towel, then his arms wrap loosely around Bucky’s back and hold down his shaking shoulders. He can feel Steve flexing inside him every time an aftershock courses through him, and it catches in his spine more often than not. _God_ that’s good, orgasm isn’t even the end of this feeling good. Steve nuzzles into his hair as he shudders, and breathes warm and deep under his ear.

“Thank you,” Bucky says, resurfacing.

Steve tilts Bucky’s head up to kiss him. And Steve’s smile shapes the air.

“That was a nice touch,” he says quietly. “Asking me if you could come.”

Bucky nods, and pulls his arms into Steve’s sides to hold him.

“Felt right.”

Steve’s hands slide down to Bucky’s hips, and his knees rise up under Bucky’s ass, keeping him forward on Steve’s chest. His own weight hurts a little and he inhales sharply. Sheesh, Hydra did a number on him. And Steve pauses.

“You alright?” Steve says.

Bucky gets his hands down, and relieves the pressure on his chest, and the pain dims.

“Yeah.”

“Alright,” Steve says. And kisses him. And presses his feet into the mattress, raising his hips, burying himself as deep in Bucky as he can go before he relaxes back down and repeats.

This is Steve taking over. Steve thrusts up and Bucky rocks back to take it. They build up momentum quickly, and Steve hardly stops kissing him. The lubrication is starting to lose its magic and go sticky but Steve doesn’t pull out much. Just drives deep and keeps kissing him, gripping at Bucky’s thighs and his ass and quickening and quickening and he bites Bucky’s bottom lip pretty hard once but Bucky didn’t get shot in the face so that’s alright.

And then Steve drops his hips, slows his thrusts and raises his head into Bucky’s neck, panting hard in Bucky's hair. He stills and wraps his arms around Bucky’s waist, plants kisses and little bites in the curve of his neck. Steve's holding back. He's making this last.

Steve starts moving again with a wretched little moan. Whatever Steve says about not being done with him, plenty more nights with him, whatever he says, that’s unknown. Steve goes back to being an Avenger and _probably_ comes home. Statistically. _Intends_ to come home, and that’s encouraging. But it’s unknown. They’ve got this and a whole shit ton of maybes.

But they’ve _got_ this. Bucky has the chance to make Steve feel good and he’s got to take it. He can amplify Steve’s rhythm, cant his hips to make Steve drag inside him the way he seemed to like, give him something, give him that. He’s not gonna force him but he can _make_ Steve come, and enjoy it.

“Please,” Bucky whispers. “Please, I _want_ you to come.”

Steve shouts an unrecognizable vowel sound and thrusts up hard and fast. His arms around Bucky’s waist are held tense instead of gripping tight and the muscles tremor. When Steve finally lets go it’s gonna tear him apart. But Bucky can be here for that.

“Tell me you love me,” Steve says. And it doesn’t sound like an order. It sounds like a plea.

That’s how. That’s how he can be here.

“I love you,” Bucky says. “I’m yours. I’m here.”

And it sounds _true_. In his voice, not just in Steve’s. Maybe they’ve only got maybes but maybe no is roughly equal to maybe yes. And maybe they don’t have much more than they had at the Retreat but maybe it’s enough more.

Steve bellows when he comes, curling up off the bed into Bucky and convulsing under him. Can’t see his face but it sounds like it’s contorted like the rest of him, sounds like that scream hurt his jaw. Someone must have heard that. Don’t care. Bucky wraps his arms under Steve where he’s arched up and keeps afloat over his waves and holds tight and doesn’t let go.

Steve shivers and mumbles, “Mine,” over and over in Bucky’s neck, licking and kissing at his skin. And Bucky says, “Yours,” every time. Steve’s hips spasm and he pumps into Bucky for what feels like hours until he’s wrung out and completely spent, and his head falls against Bucky’s, and he takes in a full breath.

“Bucky,” Steve says, like it’s a complete sentence.

“Yeah,” Bucky says.

Steve sighs, and he’s sniffling when he lies back down. Bucky takes his arms back, and takes the towel to the place where they’re joined as he shifts off. Steve twitches once when he clears Bucky and he groans softly. But he’s not done with him. Plenty more nights with him. They’ve gotta act like they believe that.

Bucky lies down at Steve’s side. Man, Steve is so much more comfortable than a pillow. He lays his left arm out across Steve’s body, and lets that hand draw wandering lovers circles on Steve’s chest, feels Steve’s arms close around his neck, and just tries to breathe.

“I love you,” Steve says.

“I love you,” Bucky says back.

Breathe.

“You got your own room?” Bucky asks.

Steve mumbles something nonsensical and shrugs.

“Not leaving,” Steve says.

“Okay,” Bucky says.

Steve runs his fingers softly down Bucky’s arm. He doesn’t seem to mind it. And this one’s okay. This one is Bucky’s. In blue, even. Probably look good with Steve’s star painted on it instead.

“I love you,” Steve says.

You just said that. But Bucky smiles. He’ll never get tired of hearing that.

“I love you,” Bucky says.

“I’ll never get tired of hearing that,” Steve says.

Bucky chuckles. 

“What?” Steve says.

“I was thinking the exact same thing,” Bucky says.

Silence. Smiles. Breathe.

Steve’s heartbeat slows. Their breathing matches, deep and quiet. Bucky’s fingers jerk at the apex of a circle. He opens his eyes.

“You gonna give me your number?” Bucky says.

“Oh, shit,” Steve says. “Yeah, should do that.”

Steve jostles Bucky in his arms and burrows his nose in his hair.

“Got used to having you around all the time.”

Not gonna have that anymore. Missions and separations start in the morning. But they got used to that too, when Bucky was in the military. Time apart, happy reunions. They can do that again.

“Don’t miss me too much,” Bucky says.

Steve huffs a laugh. Doesn’t have to say anything. His fingers on Bucky’s arm mirror the mindless trails Bucky is drawing on his chest. They’re gonna miss each other. But they’re not done with each other.

Bucky’s eyes drift closed and his fingers still. Steve presses his lips to Bucky’s forehead and Bucky sucks in a breath and he yanks his eyes open again.

“You got a time you have to get up in the morning?” Bucky says.

Steve groans and turns over to his side and tangles his limbs with Bucky’s.

“It’s taken care of. Stop it. Come here.”

He is here. All here, and all with him, all pressed against him and loving him. Steve is more comfortable than pillows and blankets. Still gonna have to buy some. Won’t always have Steve with him in bed.

Got him now, though. His soft breath plays on Bucky’s face. Bucky’s head jolts on Steve’s shoulder.

“Buck?” Steve says.

He’s moments from falling asleep. Even if it had only been a few days it had become so normal so quickly. Curling up with him, happily worn out, and falling asleep in his arms.

And it’s beautiful. But what would he miss while he was sleeping?

“I just don’t want to fall asleep,” Bucky mumbles.

Steve nods slowly. And lays his hand on the side of Bucky’s face, stroking his cheek softly with his thumb.

“Can’t make a lot of promises, Buck, but I can do you this. If I’m here when you go to sleep, I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Bucky hugs Steve close, Thank You he can’t voice right now, until he swallows the lump in his throat. Bucky won’t lose Steve in a dream. Won’t be confused in the morning, waking up and looking for him. Couldn’t have handled that. But Steve won’t leave when he’s not looking. That’s enough.

Although Bucky can see the loophole straightaway. Even if it doesn’t bother him too much.

“Even if you have to wake me up,” Bucky says.

“Even if I have to wake you up,” Steve says.

Bucky nods. Alright. That’s enough.

“But…” Steve says, and slides one hand down Bucky’s back, resting just at the beginning curve of his ass. “If you’re really determined not to go to sleep…”

Steve sticks out his tongue and licks between Bucky’s lips. Bucky grins. Steve’s a character alright. 

They’ve got more of this. Bucky’s a clever kid, he can figure out a little life in the future. Use James Travis Hanley’s papers and find a place somewhere out of the way, somewhere without a doorman, somewhere he can afford on whatever SHIELD pays. Watch Daisy’s six finishing off Hydra, they’re already oh for three trying to kill Bucky. He can have more of this. And if Fate shows up, it won’t just be Steve telling him where he can stick it.

But… Well… 

Bucky licks out at Steve’s tongue, and then traps it in his mouth, and rolls over him.

Maybe he can stay awake a while longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn’t resist an epilogue. I just had to get them back into the world. And I don’t understand why the Marvel writers seem to disagree but writing dialogue for Steve and Bucky is a hoot and a half. It’s hard to stop.


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life goes on after Steve and Bucky reenter the world from the Retreat. But nothing will be the same.

Agent Piper waves over her shoulder from the cockpit when Bucky says goodnight on his way out of the quinjet. She hardly said more when he greeted her, or when they were in the air. And Bucky steps off the plane oddly refreshed by being ignored.

And more refreshed to be in open air out of that fucking quinjet. He’s spent the better part of two days in the damn thing. From the city to SHIELD’s base, from the base to Siberia, and all of it back again. The little municipal airport that actually allowed SHIELD to land is nearly deserted, and the sky that had stretched out all around him for so much of this last mission only stretches out over him, clear and sprinkled with stars. Much better.

He pulls his pack up higher on his back and walks unaccosted across the tarmac. Piper takes off behind him, and he doesn’t bother to watch. Walking feels fantastic. A quinjet is only about three steps long. 

Worth it. Worth the quick turnaround from that little scuffle in Kansas City. The landlord knocked on the door with a phone call from Daisy as soon as he’d found his place in his book, and after she finished chastising him for never having his cell phone on she told him him she’d finally found the files he’d asked for and he lost his place again and cancelled his plans with Wanda and hailed a cab back to the airport. It’s a living. And he’d been waiting for the blueprints and the location for the facility in Siberia.

He’d wished he could’ve called Steve and told him he’d be on mission too for a while, but it’s been radio silence from Steve for almost two weeks. In and of itself that’s not a worry. Bucky would hear from every news outlet available if Captain America had died. Everyone would. And they hadn’t. So he’s out there. Just can’t call.

Makes it difficult for him to care about the cell phone. Daisy gave it to him but she’s got other ways of reaching him. Wanda doesn’t need Bucky to have one, if she wants to come over she just shows up. And the modern habit of constant communication is uncomfortable. It’s switched off on a shelf back in his apartment.

The tarmac ends at a fence with a gate and an attendant who nods Bucky through. Bucky thinks, and says, “Have a good night.” And the man says, “You too,” and closes the gate.

And that’s it. Bucky is seen, and alone, and exposed, and means absolutely nothing. He’s gonna be getting used to that for a while. He glances back over his shoulder and watches the attendant until he’s out of line of sight, but in the ancient tradition of guards everywhere guarding a boring post the man sits down and picks up a newspaper and pays him no mind.

Daisy’s team had to, other than agent Piper. Bucky had been given dossiers for Joey and Elena, and knew they had a false one for agent James Hanley, but he hadn’t met them before this mission. Thank God for small favors, neither of them had been raised in the States or gone to SHIELD’s academy, and had no reason to doubt what they’d been told.

Joey looked at him sideways when Bucky walked into the quinjet and nodded with his lips tight and for a moment Bucky was afraid he recognized him. But no. He was just afraid of him. Fair enough. In SHIELD’s tactical leathers Bucky was kinda scary again. Joey had no idea how bad he could fuck Bucky up with a handshake. Bucky had to ask Daisy several times if Joey had his ability to melt metal under control now. She assured him he did.

Elena looked Bucky in the eye and stood square with him. She had nothing to fear from him. Or much of anybody. He’d be on the ground before he saw her move and she’d be standing there again, smirking down at him.

So Bucky smiled at them more than he needed to. Paid more attention to the tone of his voice. Remembered being a sergeant. And when he spread the blueprints for the missile silo out on the floor of the quinjet Joey crouched shoulder to shoulder with him to look over them and asked about what the support structures were made of, if he’d be able to destroy them.

And they’d joked with each other in Spanish on the ride in, and cottoned on when Bucky laughed at the punchlines, and included him in their conversation to Daisy’s consternation. Her fault, not learning the first language of half her team and a strong second for another quarter. And as ancient as the tradition of slacking off on a boring watch is that of maintaining certain areas of one’s life out of the reach of one’s superior officers, and gently letting them know it. Joey and Elena let Bucky in to camaraderie.

The airport is only a few miles from his new place. Might as well walk it. He’s got cash in his pocket, could hail a cab, but it’s a nice night and he’s not guaranteed a cabbie as uncommunicative as Piper. The breeze mostly smells like the industrial district but always, a little bit, even if he’s just imagining it, like the ocean. And he’d missed that. The solid weight of it on the edge of his mental map is comforting.

But the _lights_. Always lights, everywhere lights, he’d never noticed as a kid when he _wanted_ to be seen. The airport is lights and the sidewalk is lights and the streets and the buildings are _built_ of lights and everyone he passes walking can _see_ him.

And no one says a word.

Elena, she’d warmed up to him pretty quick. When they were looking down on the facility in Siberia from the hill behind it and watching the patrol of guards, Elena elbowed him, and said, “Watch this.” He made the mistake of trying to. She blurred with speed next to him, and stabilized in his peripheral vision a heartbeat later with rifles in her hand that had vanished before his very eyes from the hands of the guards. He was almost too stunned to fire and take them out.

But he did, and the guards went down in a blue flash. He’s gotten better with the icer rounds. He’d happily use live ammunition on Hydra but SHIELD doesn’t want them to kill if they don’t have to. So he’s practiced at the range with the tranquilizers they’d used on him. The rounds are a little heavy, and he’s not impressed with himself yet, but they’ll do.

And showboating notwithstanding that Yo-Yo was handy as _hell_. And proud as punch. Her smile got broader and broader with his rising awe. Getting in to the silo was almost too easy, with Elena disarming Hydra’s guards and Bucky firing faster than they could call for reinforcements. But Bucky’s definitions of “easy” were set before the age of superheroes.

It’s harder just to walk down the street. He’s got a jacket on and it covers his arm and he’s got a ballcap down over his face and he’s probably the only person in New York wearing gloves in July, but that’s a temporary solution. Combat is easier than the damned _waiting_ , and trusting the willful blindness of New Yorkers. But his destination is about as out of the way as a semi-legal residence gets, and that will be better.

The silo… Seeing it… The power had failed ages ago, and no electricity hummed through the conduits to the chair, but it was still there. The towering glass chambers were sealed around still and lifeless figures. Could’ve been him. Daisy knew, but she couldn’t say, and she tried to position herself next to him after the floor was clear. For support or control, either way. He felt like it was support.

And he muttered, “It’s better this way.”

Joey asked, “Did you know them?” 

And Bucky said, “Yes. And, no.”

And the goddamn book… Ward’s intel panned out. Hydra dug up the book and took it back to the facility to use it if they could. They were trying to get the power back on when Daisy’s gang of waifs and strays arrived and Bucky happily joined in stopping them from doing that.

And found the goddamn book. And he had to see it.

Bucky shakes his head, and pulls his hair out of its elastic, and straightens it back in. That book had been the last thing. The last thread. Bucky didn’t get a look at it. Joey melted through the reinforced doors in the silo and they found the book in a safe. The puddle that remained of a safe after Joey touched it. Daisy immediately stored the book in her pack. Bucky didn’t _really_ want to read it, though he felt entitled to it at this point. But just looking at the cover, that beaten Hydra red with that star stamped on it, made him shudder.

It’s over. It doesn’t work anymore. And SHIELD has it now. That’s over.

And even the facility is gone. They’d gotten the Hydra agents to a safe distance, a mercy they didn’t deserve, and Joey melted the steel support beams and Daisy shook out the concrete and Elena zipped in and pulled them out and they watched the whole Goddamned thing cave in on itself into a crater in the snow. Bugged out before the Russian authorities showed up to gather the Hydra agents into custody.

It’s over. It’s all over.

He reaches his building and pulls out a key. Daisy had asked him, back at base after Elena and Joey left for their own rides home, if he’d found a place that he liked. And he had to admit that he had.

He’d looked hard for a place like this. Talked to contractors instead of leasing agents. It used to be a factory. Legally it’s empty and from this side it sure looks it, with the sign of the old shoe company fading over the door and a couple of tarps covering broken windows.

But Bucky had recognized the brand new roof and tuckpointing and gotten himself a conversation with the new owner with big dreams of converting it into apartments. James Hanley has a credit score and Bucky made it look like he can keep his mouth shut and the owner was glad to have some rent coming in while he’s renovating. He couldn’t charge much for the wreck and Bucky could afford it on what SHIELD pays him.

Which made Daisy scoff, and then admit that she knows what SHIELD pays their contractors, and he’s probably right. He’ll move out when other people move in and the rent goes up. But it’s good enough for now.

Then Daisy asked, “Got any plans for the fourth?”

And Bucky said, “Like what?”

“Well, I mean… Just cuz, I dunno, you live in New York?” Daisy said. “Big firework shows?”

“Not a fan. Been around enough explosions.”

“That’s… Yeah, I can understand that. I just thought the fourth was… something else, with, someone, else, but… nevermind.”

Then she told him again to keep his phone on him, and he told her again that he would, though he expected to “forget.” And he changed back out of the black SHIELD leathers, and got on the plane with Piper, and flew back to the city in silence.

Bucky tries the elevator, and it isn’t working again. No surprise. He dodges around the construction equipment and starts up the stairs, pulling off the gloves and the hat. The union guys are home with their families and the owner is drinking his money troubles away in a bar down the street. Bucky is alone in the building. He’s safe.

He had been away from calendars for so long that holidays didn’t really register anymore. The fourth of July was what, picnics and fireworks and children in paper hats? Not even a day off where he’d worked, but time and a half when he’d been working for pay. And it’s…

Oh shit the fourth is Steve’s birthday.

Fuck of course it is. Like he was fucking destined to be Captain America. Well it’s a good thing he’s out of the country cuz Bucky plumb forgot. Might try to text him in the morning.

Wonder what birthday Steve even thinks this is? Thirty candles on this cake, or ninety-eight?

Bucky opens the one hastily installed home interior door on the third floor. The apartment could generously be called a “studio,” an open rectangle of concrete floor and exposed brick walls. No doors but the one to the bathroom, no corners he can’t see, no furniture but what it takes to sleep and hold up the books and the music and a very prominently displayed digital clock. One wall is dedicated to a sort of a half-finished promise of a kitchen, and floor to ceiling blackout curtains cover the enormous challenging windows.

But what dominates the space at the moment is the figure of Steve Rogers, perched on the arm of Bucky’s futon in a pool of light from the one lamp he turned on. And swirling a glass of what appears to be the very expensive Japanese whiskey Wanda gave Bucky as a present thank you very much.

“I would’ve called, but…” Steve says. 

He picks up Bucky’s cell phone and waggles it in the air before he puts it back on the shelf where he found it.

“…you wouldn’t have gotten it anyway.”

Oh, really? We’re starting off with attitude, are we? He doesn’t get enough of that from Daisy? Man snuck up on him and has the gall to taunt him first. Great. Bucky can play that game. He rolls his eyes and drops his pack.

“Y’know if you were ever anywhere with a cell signal for more than five minutes together I might get used to keeping it on,” Bucky says.

He shucks out of the jacket and drops it on the backpack. Steve has one of his own at his feet. And he got Bucky’s stereo going. It’s playing something slow on the theme of pianos and saxophones. Man made himself right at home. Ass.

“How does Daisy get ahold of you?” Steve says.

“She calls the landlord…”

“I’m not doing that. Turn your phone on.”

Bucky drops the hat and kicks his shoes off. They’re next to Steve’s by the door. Steve stands, and picks up another glass. Well at least he’s gonna share Bucky’s own whiskey with him.

“Daisy call you after I left?” Bucky says.

“Don’t be mad at her.”

“I’m not mad. Just… tracking vectors of information.”

Steve walks over and hands Bucky the other glass. He’d kept his word and hadn’t stolen away in the night on SHIELD’s base but kissing him goodbye that morning was the last time Bucky had seen him. Steve fills the room from edge to edge and his eyes keep the daylight going long into the night. Sweet Jesus it’s good to see him. And damn him to hell but the sexy music isn’t helping Bucky maintain the attitude.

“This is breaking and entering,” Bucky says. “Technically.”

“Arrest me,” Steve says. “That door was a piece of cake. And you didn’t get me a key.”

“Just found the place. And you just got back. So you can shut it.”

Steve puts his other hand in his pocket and sips at the whiskey.

“Wanda has a key,” Steve says.

“Wanda’s… Wanda,” Bucky says. “And she was actually here for a housewarming party.”

Steve says “Ha!” more than he actually laughs. “Party?”

“Alright so it was just the two of us. What of it?”

“No, nothing. Nothing. I’m glad you two are friends.”

Steve jingles the change in his pocket and takes the apartment in an appraising gaze.

“Just can’t see you having parties here.”

Oh shut up.

“You’re pampered, Captain,” Bucky says. “Gone soft in your old age.”

“That’s as maybe,” Steve says.

Steve’s wandering eyes land on Bucky again. 

“Not even gonna say you’re happy to see me?” Steve says.

Nope. Bucky’s not gonna say it. Even if he is barely tethered to the earth by his feet with his head floating on a little cloud of joy. Even if Steve’s mere presence has made the place home, somehow.

But he will hold his glass off to one side, and wrap his other arm around Steve’s waist, and kiss the smile off his face. Bucky’s gotta find Steve’s tailor and start paying him under the table to keep Steve in shirts like this, looking like one good yank would split the seams and take it right off of him and making Bucky _want_ to do exactly that.

Steve’s tongue and his hand on Bucky’s back quickly give him the idea Steve isn’t even intending to finish the whiskey. Bucky lets him go and brings the glass to his lips instead. He takes a swallow and sits down on the futon out of Steve’s reach. That little bastard’s gonna wait.

“So,” Bucky says. “We win?”

Steve blinks. And crosses his arms. And drinks a while from the whiskey.

“As much as we ever do,” Steve says. “We all made it back in one piece. Getting a little tired of chasing Brock Rumlow’s shadow and coming up empty.”

Steve sits next to him and leans back into the corner of the futon, and wraps an arm around Bucky’s shoulder to pull him over with his back in Steve’s side. Bucky goes along. It’s too easy. Such an easy place to be. Steve’s ribs fit in between Bucky’s shoulderblades.

“So. We win?” Steve says.

“Yeah, actually. SHIELD has that little red book in lockup. And the facility in Siberia is rubble. Yeah, I guess we won this one.”

Steve squeezes Bucky under his arm.

“How’s it feel?” Steve says.

“You wanna hear me say you were right?” Bucky says. “You were right. This whole hero thing’s not bad. Even if they did expect me to be up at oh dark thirty and jammed in a tin can for two days.”

“Tough life.”

“You’re telling me.”

Steve raises his glass, and clinks the edge to Bucky’s.

“Cheers.”

And they drink. And Steve’s arm crosses Bucky’s chest. And his fingertips play just over his nipple, and Bucky shivers.

Nope. Not giving in just yet.

“How’d you get in, anyway?” Bucky says.

“Landlord let me take a look around the building,” Steve says. “I told him I used to live around here.”

“Lying to civilians,” Bucky says. “You’re just racking up the charges this evening.”

One of Steve’s fingers meaningfully crosses Bucky’s nipple and he can feel the creeping but tantalizing sensation of it hardening under Steve’s touch.

“Give it time,” Steve says.

Bucky swallows.

“That’s not a crime anymore.”

Steve hums a little laugh, and kisses the corner of Bucky’s jaw just under his ear.

“I can’t help but notice you’re the only person actually living in this building,” Steve says.

Yeah, for a damned good reason, too. Several good reasons. One of which is sitting next to him and driving him to distraction.

“Yeah, don’t tell anybody,” Bucky says. “It’s not zoned for residential yet.”

“Explains why you have a P.O. box instead of a mailing address.”

Bucky throws a hand up in exaggerated exasperation.

“Oh, you too? Bad enough SHIELD tracks me like they fucking own me.”

Steve pulls him close, and leans over his shoulder, and Bucky can smell the whiskey on Steve’s breath, and feel it across his cheek.

“You work for them,” Steve says. “But you belong to me.”

And Bucky feels like he’s stuck his finger in a light socket. Tingling rushes over his skin and the hair on his body rises straight out in gooseflesh. He almost crushes the glass in his hand. He belongs to Steve. And he _likes_ the _sound_ of that.

Can’t look at him. Bucky raises his legs to cross them stretched out on the futon. Can’t show Steve what he just did. But if Steve’s keeping tabs on him? That’s fine. Yep. Just fine.

“You gonna be in town for a bit?” Bucky says, fighting his voice steady.

“Should be. Til we get another call. You leave me a drawer?”

Bucky waves the glass in an arc encompassing the nearly unbroken concrete floor.

“Haven’t gotten around to much furniture.”

“You don’t even have a bed,” Steve says.

“You’re sittin’ on it.”

“It’s a couch.”

“It folds down.”

“That’s a hassle.”

“I know. I leave it how it is. I only picked it up cuz I figured…”

Steve looks at him expectantly. Bucky sighs.

“Fine. I actually believed you. Figured you’d be here eventually, and, I’d need… something… for both of us… to sleep on.”

Bucky shrugs further under Steve’s arm, and drapes his left arm out along Steve’s leg. It hadn’t been the most fantastical thing he’d had to believe, that Steve was coming back. But it had been high on the list. 

“Happy?” Bucky says.

“Yeah,” Steve says.

He doesn’t need to tell Steve he’d spent the first couple of nights in a sleeping bag on the floor. He could’ve lived with it but couldn’t live with what it represented. He could see Steve walking through the door, someday. Kept seeing it. So he shelled out for the futon. Couch and a bed and a third the price of either one. He’s still a clever kid.

And it was pretty comfortable. Gave him and Wanda a place to sit and play cards. Gave him a concrete vision of a future he dares hope for. Somewhere to put Steve if he ever showed up.

Bucky lays his head back on Steve’s shoulder and sips slowly at the whiskey and listens to the music. Must be something Steve brought with him. Bucky doesn’t recognize it. But it’s a cousin to music he knows. Music they know. That Steve remembers too. 

Steve rests his hand on Bucky’s mechanical bicep under the edge of his shirt. They’re such a picture that Bucky can see it from outside of it. Just a couple of folks cozying up with a drink and each other. Doesn’t seem right. Seems perfect.

“Got anything to eat?” Steve says.

“No,” Bucky says. “Tin can, remember? We’ll order a pizza. You should’ve eaten at the Tower.”

Steve clears his throat and rolls the whiskey in the glass.

“I didn’t stay long.”

That’s not a great tone.

“Stark’s still sore?” Bucky says.

Steve nods slowly.

“There’s Stark, and then there’s Sam and Natasha.”

“You told them?”

“Well I said I was seeing a man named James and they put two and two together and started yelling.”

Bucky groans, and drains the last of the whiskey in his glass. Steve runs a comforting hand down his arm.

“But Wanda is better at those kinds of conversations than I am,” Steve says. “They think I’m a lovesick fool but they trust Wanda. Nobody’s coming after you. Just meant staying at the Tower was… tense.”

Well, could be worse. Romanov and Wilson know. And “tense” isn’t violent. “Tense” they can deal with. Bucky sets his glass on the floor and sits up and turns to face Steve.

“Well are you?” Bucky says.

Steve smiles.

“Am I what, coming after you?”

Bucky lets himself smile too. He’s about done with being an asshole. They’ve had a rough few days. And this is _so_ much better.

“No, I know the answer to that,” Bucky says.

He wraps his right arm around Steve’s waist, laying half across his lap, and reaches up with his left. This arm doesn’t even interrupt the music with noise, drifts silently toward Steve’s face and lands delicately. Steve presses his cheek into Bucky’s palm, and his eyes close.

“Are you a lovesick fool?” Bucky says, just to make him say it.

Steve turns his face in Bucky’s hand, and presses his lips to Bucky’s metal palm. And he doesn’t have to answer the question after that. Of course he is. He’s gotta be a fool to not be afraid. Or to be afraid and sit here anyway. But he opens his eyes, and quirks a little smile, and answers anyway.

“Of course I am.”

And Bucky reels him in to kiss him. Of course he is. The best and worst kind of damned fool, and so loved for it.

Steve sets his glass on the arm of the futon so he can wrap both arms around Bucky and pull them close together, and Steve still wants to use too much tongue but Bucky is never going to tell him to stop. Bucky can taste the whiskey and sweet foolishness he spent decades longing for. Steve explores his mouth and draws back heaven knows what other than the whiskey but Bucky hopes he finds the same sweetness too. Desire reciprocated and returned.

Bucky’s right hand finds itself moving up Steve’s side under his shirt, and his left moving to the buttons at his collar, still kissing him with complete abandon and hardly noticing. But Steve didn’t show up here thinking they were just gonna sit and chat. He’d made that abundantly clear.

Steve groans and loosens his hold on Bucky and tilts back.

“God I love you,” Steve mutters. “But, uh, you mentioned pizza.”

Oh, no. No no. Steve doesn’t get to jerk him around one way and then the other.

“We gonna fuck first?” Bucky says.

Steve’s eyebrows jump up.

“Excuse me?” Steve says.

Oh for fuck’s sake. As if Steve has the right to act surprised just cuz Bucky said it instead of Steve suggesting it.

“Well?” Bucky says. “We’re both awake. Seem to be in the mood. And I’d rather rush through dinner than rush through you.”

Bucky fingers at the top button of Steve’s shirt. Buttons are tough with that hand but he’s got other options.

“So,” Bucky says. “We gonna fuck first?”

“That’s some mouth you’ve got on you Buck,” Steve says.

Bucky snaps the button off at the stitches and sends it pinging across the room. Steve’s marble facade cracks open and briefly shows him delighted outrage.

And as Steve straightens and opens his mouth to protest, Bucky says, “Shut me up.”

Steve’s mouth closes, and he bites into the tip of his tongue, and he fixes Bucky under a dangerous erotic smile.

“Get on your knees,” Steve says.

Bucky’s legs tense under him to follow orders, but his brain gets in his own way.

“Excuse _me_?” Bucky says. “I know your momma taught you to say please.”

Steve takes a deep breath, and weaves his fingers into Bucky’s hair.

“Baby, you have no idea how much I missed you. I’ve been looking forward to this. And we are gonna have a lot of fun.”

His tone is so soft and sweet Bucky misses the warning and smiles. They’re already having a lot of fun, in the ongoing good-natured skirmish. Steve kisses him gently.

“I love you,” Steve says.

“I love you,” Bucky says.

Steve twists his fingers, wrapping Bucky’s hair painfully tight in his fist. Bucky gasps, and Steve’s sweet tone evaporates in heat.

“Now get on your knees.”

Yep. Yep, he can do that. Mother _Mary_ Steve is sexy when he gets like this. Sure hope he doesn’t know what an easy mark he is. Or at least doesn’t mind.

Bucky slips his legs off the edge of the futon and Steve releases his hair to let him get to the floor. Steve stands, an imposing colossus over him, and Bucky sinks back on his knees. Must have taken some getting used to, being taller. He cuts a hell of a stately figure now, though his arousal is an obvious shadow at his zipper and level with Bucky’s face and Bucky’s got levers into that colossus.

Bucky reaches up for the buckle of Steve’s belt, and Steve takes a step back.

“Hands behind your back,” Steve says.

… if Steve will let him use them.

“You son of a bitch…” Bucky grumbles. But his hands link behind his back with very little conscious input from him.

Steve unfastens his pants, and frees his erection from confinement.

“Miss me?” Steve says.

“Of course I fucking missed you,” Bucky says.

“You’re still gonna be like that? Alright. Maybe I’ll just make you watch.”

Wait… Would he… Would he _do_ that?

Steve takes himself in hand and strokes slowly, his eyes never leaving a lock on Bucky’s.

“Make you sit there and not let you touch,” Steve says.

He… might… do that… 

“Oh baby that’s just cruel,” Bucky says.

“What would you prefer?” Steve says.

There it is. Yeah, Steve _might_ actually be willing to torture Bucky like that. But he can’t particularly want to deprive himself. Just playing at making Bucky earn it.

Gosh this game is fun.

Make it vulgar. Make Steve want it too. _Try_ to say it looking him in the eye.

“I want your cock in my mouth,” Bucky says. _Man_ that still sounds weird. Even if it is true.

“I want to taste you,” Bucky says. That sounds better. “Taste” is a good word, he can make that sound delicious.

“Please,” Bucky says. Gotta play the classics. “Please, I can make you feel so good.”

Steve’s hand stops on himself. He’s watching Bucky with his lips slightly parted and the blue of his eyes a tiny sliver around the blown out black. Apparently it sounded delicious to him too.

“Take it if you want it,” Steve says.

Excellent. Bucky quietly chalks it up as a win.

He starts to move his mouth toward Steve, and Steve’s hand slips back into his hair and pulls him along, reminding him that Steve is setting the pace. Bucky’s hands unlace behind his back and Steve jerks him to a stop.

“Just your mouth,” Steve says. “Hands to yourself.”

Jeez, Steve’s got a lot of pent up bossy waiting for this. But Bucky’s so hard in his lap it’s setting off little fireworks in his head whenever he shifts against his own thigh. Steve is being an utter bastard and if Bucky really thinks he might be able to remember a time when he was _almost_ as turned on as he is right now.

So he leaves his hands behind his back, though it does make things a tad more difficult. He has to lift himself up on his knees to hold himself level with Steve if he can’t hold Steve level with himself. His lips brush the head of Steve’s cock and he opens his mouth and Steve yanks him forward and he barely has the time to round his lips over his teeth before Steve impales him.

Well, he asked for it. Got Steve all riled up and got this. Steve rocks his hips and pulls Bucky’s head back and forth and he can’t really feel what he asked for, Steve moves so fast. The only sensation is motion, hot and wet throughout his mouth, and Steve’s zipper scratching on his cheek.

Bossyness isn’t the only thing Steve’s got pent up. Steve is just using Bucky for his own pleasure, fucking his mouth more than receiving a blowjob. Bucky barely has enough control to keep from gagging and doesn’t always have that.

“God, look at you…” Steve grumbles over him.

Yeah, funny thing about that. He knows what he looks like. Only for Steve. Bucky is scary in the leathers with SHIELD and awkward and disordered and willing with Steve. He can be both. Steve’s allowed to look at him like this. Steve’s got hold of him and he’s not letting go.

Steve’s cock slips from between his lips and bounces on his chin. Dammit. He didn’t actually mean to do that but it’s proving his unspoken point. Bucky opens his mouth and seeks Steve with his tongue and whimpers. It’s not just desire, it’s so much easier to do this right if he’s got his hands dammit. And if Steve would take off his fucking pants.

“Go ahead,” Steve says. “You can have your hands.”

Bucky reaches up with both hands and pulls down on Steve’s pants and the shorts underneath. Steve kicks out of them and Bucky’s left hand plants on Steve’s hip. He presses the tips of his fingers down at the base of Steve’s cock to hold him level. Steve didn’t seem to mind that hand, and the metal is warm enough from holding his other behind his back. And Bucky can have his right to really touch.

He takes Steve down into his mouth again and gently fondles over his balls. Sometimes that’s nice, and sometimes that tickles. Steve twitches and Bucky moves his hand. Tickles. Got it. He reaches up between Steve’s legs and grabs a handful of his ass. Steve chuckles. He lets up on the tempo, stops choking Bucky on his cock and lets Bucky keep the pace going. He will.

Bucky starts the tip of one of his fingers at Steve’s tailbone and draws down, between the cheeks, and just brushes Steve’s asshole, touches over the puckered surface. Bucky sure likes how that feels, maybe Steve does too.

Steve groans and pulls back on Bucky’s hair. Or maybe not.

“No?” Bucky says.

Steve shakes his head, then immediately nods and steps his feet apart.

“No, it’s fine,” Steve says. “That’s fine. Just not dry is all.”

“I wouldn’t…”

Don’t. Don’t bother. Just go to it. Bucky licks his middle finger sopping wet, wraps his mouth around Steve’s cock, and replaces his hand between Steve’s legs.

One wet finger goes in easy, he knows that. He still goes slow, _he_ wants to feel it, Steve is blazing hot and _so_ soft inside, holding his finger _so_ tight at his opening. Good Lord… Bucky draws back and forth just to feel and to listen until Steve moans loud and says, “There,” and Bucky can feel something at the tip of his finger, something raised, and rubs gently and sucks long on Steve’s cock.

Steve’s mouth pours blessings down on him. Yes, God yes, it’s so good, you’re so good, Bucky you’re amazing. And that’s helpful. Steve’s not the only quick study but cleverness doesn’t always stand in for experience. 

Bucky finds the pressure and speed that gets the least coherent words out of Steve and keeps at him until he’s moaning and shuddering and finally crying out and spurting at the back of Bucky’s throat and clamping down around his finger. Bucky holds still and swallows, waits unmoving while Steve throbs and swallows again before he draws off and takes his hand back. Bucky’s not entirely clueless. He’s got data to draw from. And it’s so gratifying to be able to put it to use.

“Welcome back,” Bucky says.

“Hell of a welcome,” Steve says.

He waves a hand at the futon.

“Pull out the…” Steve says. “Bed. Just. Pull it out.”

Bucky can do that from the floor. This one’s pretty easy. Steve sits down heavily on the edge. Bucky shifts to one side, aiming to pull his legs out from under him and stand, but Steve rests his hands on Bucky’s shoulders. Alright, not getting up for a minute.

“You okay on your knees?” Steve asks.

“As long as you want me to be,” Bucky says. Mostly true.

Steve nods. He touches over Bucky’s shoulders, down his arms, up his neck. Blissed out wandering, calming down, coming back. He pulls Bucky’s shirt off and drops it on his pants, and repeats the motions of his hands on exposed skin and metal. Bucky keeps his hands at his sides. Steve made him wait to touch before, he’s not sure if he has to now, but he can enjoy Steve’s delicate attentiveness too without reaching for him. 

Then Steve’s right hand circles back up to Bucky’s neck and spreads around his throat, just making contact. Bucky doesn’t move. Steve bears down gently with the webbing of his thumb. Bucky doesn’t move.

“Yes?” Steve says.

Bucky nods. It was okay, that one morning, when everything was fine, when the sun was shining on him and even if he didn’t believe in forever he believed in that morning and trusted the Retreat and trusted Steve.

And it’s okay here. Behind curtains, up staircases, alone together in a place known only to a few trusted and in the dazzling presence of one of them. Same difference.

Steve sits forward on the edge of the futon, and cups Bucky’s face in his other hand.

“Breathe,” Steve says.

Bucky inhales deeply, and lets it out. Takes another breath. Steve watches him, breathing slowly in time with him. When he inhales again Steve’s hand closes down and stops his breath at its fullest.

And all of the sensations caused have to queue in the briefest of seconds before Steve lets go and Bucky’s breath rushes out. Pressure without pain, fullness in his chest and in his face, a complete freezing of time in the strange clarity of imminent danger despite which the sensitive skin on his neck registers pleasure at the contact with Steve’s warm hand and his mind, bound in Steve’s strength, a mystifying lack of fear.

Oh… Okay… That’s kinda fun… 

“Okay,” Bucky whispers. “Do that again.”

Steve nods. Bucky breathes. He’s not gonna make Steve tell him to again. And Steve’s hand tightens again at the height of another inhale. Steve holds him only long enough to kiss him softly. And Bucky has been kissed and kissed a lot but never like the world has stopped for it. Steve lets go, and Bucky breathes out, and rests his forehead on Steve’s.

“Okay,” Bucky says. “Sometimes. Not all the time.”

“Okay,” Steve says.

And then Steve is kissing him again. Deep and hard, forcing his tongue between Bucky’s lips. Bucky’s blood thunders in his ears. Steve is taking, taking Bucky’s helplessness again, drinking his grateful cries as Steve devours him without so much as a leading caress. Bucky’s chest heaves, sucking deep breaths when Steve lets him, when Steve’s tongue isn’t filling his mouth and promising so much more fulfillment.

Steve needs permission. But _all_ Steve needs is permission.

He keeps up with Steve’s kiss somehow, returning it frantically, though his arms still hang at his sides, fists balled. God Steve is so fast, he’s not sure, this is a game but games have rules and until he _knows_ , until Steve _says_ , he _can’t_ , and _God_ he wants to touch him and hold him and it’s so hard to keep up.

“Do you want to touch me?” Steve says.

Bucky groans. Nods.

“Say it.”

“I want to touch you,” Bucky says.

“Then do it.”

Bucky goes with a soft moan, sitting up on his knees and wrapping Steve up in a tight embrace and seeking his lips again. Steve delivers, allowing Bucky to kiss him with an exploratory sweetness he savors. Steve relaxes for a moment so Bucky can rise into him, his hands grabbing at the back of Steve’s shirt, seeking his skin. He tears Steve’s shirt off his back, figured he could, and Steve gasps surprise before Bucky is on him again.

Bucky’s hands consume him, weeks were too long away from him and he has the entirety of the super soldier before him. He spreads flat across the planes of Steve’s chest and down his abs, shakes his hair out of his eyes and watches his own hands skate over solidified sunlight in gorgeous muscle. His lips hang slack and he can feel them forming wordless expressions of awe. And Steve doesn’t have to move. Doesn’t have to _do_ anything to bring reverence out of Bucky, has that power just by _being_.

Then Bucky buries his face in Steve’s neck and plays with lips and teeth to make Steve moan. He claws at Steve’s back, streaking red lines he can see in how deeply he feels Steve’s skin under his nails. When he bites hard into Steve’s shoulder Steve snarls and cards his fingers into Bucky’s hair and pulls. Bucky’s teeth release when his mouth falls open in a gasp. Steve grabs him around the waist and hauls him up onto the futon, throwing him down on his back and tugging at his belt and cursing under his breath because while he _could_ split Bucky’s belt in his hands it’d hurt Bucky too much to do it.

Bucky goes languid again, bowing whenever Steve flexes strength, exquisite surrender he knows he’ll be chasing as long as Steve will let him. God it’s so much _fun_! It’s terrifying and exhilarating and it’s _Steve_. Back in the city, like they never left.

Steve pulls him in to another lingering kiss. Holds his teeth and tongue back, just dances his lips across Bucky’s, making him pant and whimper for more. Steve presses his knee into the futon between Bucky’s legs. Oh of course he’s hard again. Wonder if Erskine told Steve that was gonna happen or if it was just a side effect. That the good doctor would be giving him strength and speed and taking away a refractory period. Would’ve been a funny conversation… 

Steve cants his hips down to let Bucky feel him and Bucky’s head lolls back, exposing his neck. Which Steve lavishes attention on, with slow work of his lips and tongue at the sensitive place just above the scar that makes Bucky twist and whine when he sucks hard. Bucky writhes under his touch, transported.

Then Steve goes to his knees on the floor, pulling Bucky’s pants off and tossing them aside, and opening his own pack on the floor. Bucky doesn’t have to wonder why. Steve grabs under his hips and pulls him to the edge of the futon with his feet down and his knees up, and the futon lists dangerously under the unbalanced weight but doesn’t tip over. Cold air slips up the crack of his ass and he’s quickly longing for Steve’s warm touch, knowing it’s coming, _something_ is coming, must be.

“Look at that,” Steve mutters. “I can have whatever I want.”

“Anything,” Bucky says. “Please.”

“But what do you want?” Steve says.

“Jesus Steve… Haven’t you heard enough?” Bucky whines.

Steve snaps the cap open on a bottle and Bucky feels his fingers slicking over him.

“Tell me,” Steve says, “or you won’t get it.”

He’s asking nearly the impossible. Steve bewildered him and then expects him to think? And speak?

“God dammit Steve,” Bucky says. He always has access to curses.

Steve touches him lazily, sliding his fingers around, while Bucky tries to speak, tries not to speak. Steve kisses his calf, kisses his thigh, and smiles, waiting.

“Ohhh fuck you…” Bucky grumbles. “Please… God I hate you so much… Please, your fingers, please don’t stop.”

Steve lines two fingers up together and just presses in. There is no resistance to his intrusion, in Bucky’s body or in his voice, sighing pleasure at Steve’s touch.

“And this is all you want?” Steve says.

“Oh god Steve I don’t care, I just want you.”

“I care,” Steve says.

He works gently with his fingers, but he is working, on the goal of getting Bucky loose and slippery and avoiding a great deal of the pleasure in it. Bucky groans and squeezes his eyes closed, bangs his head down on the mattress and drags words out of himself with an effort Steve must be able to see and still only manages a whisper.

“I want you to fuck me.”

Steve moans softly hearing it. “I will.”

And it sounds like a vow. Steve shoves Bucky back and puts his knees down on the edge of the futon, lifts Bucky’s thighs in his hands and bends him almost double to expose his ass and plunge into him. 

Ah, fuck yes, the pleasure of it and the vindication in Steve’s rewards floods him instantly. And Steve doesn’t make him ask for more. Steve thrusts deep, props Bucky’s hips on his thighs, and wraps his hand around Bucky’s cock. Jesus yes, Bucky’s cock hasn’t gotten a bit of attention and he’s _so_ ready for it. Steve strokes him with the hand slippery from the lube and Bucky is panting fast, shaking in Steve’s lap.

Steve’s got a fucking vendetta against his lower back, they’re gonna have a talk about the positions he puts Bucky in, but he’s got Steve sunk in his ass and Steve’s hand pumping him closer and closer and he tries not to think about it. Focus. Focus on _Jesus Christ_ how fucking good it feels, how Steve’s got slip and friction cuz _fuck_ he knows what he’s doing, and nearing orgasm makes Bucky feel even more full of Steve’s cock, like it’s buried in to his stomach, like Steve takes up as much space in his body as he does in his home. In his life.

“Can I?” Bucky gasps.

“Yes,” Steve says. “Come for me.”

And it’s such a sweet relief when he does that he just groans and relaxes into it to feel it all wash over him, sags down onto Steve’s thighs instead of tensing away into himself. Gravity is not his friend and his come spills out of Steve’s hand and down his own stomach but the fuck does he care. He’s got spare sheets. In a linen closet. In _his_ bathroom. With _his_ shower. And no guilt in using all of it.

He doesn’t expect a break and Steve doesn’t give him one. Steve holds Bucky up with strong hands on his hips and hammers into him. Bucky knew it would be pounding fast as soon as he started to move, figures that’s probably why Steve got him off first sweetheart that he is. Steve’s been waiting too long and Bucky’s healed up and Steve doesn’t have to go easy.

And Bucky doesn’t despair the lack of kindness. He can’t hear everything he’s saying in the sounds and words Steve punches out of him but at least one of the words is “Harder” and evidently Steve hears that. 

May have been a mistake. If he’d thought Steve was going full tilt before, he’d been wrong. Steve growls and finds reserves of speed and Bucky’s lower back isn’t the only thing gonna be sore after this. The futon creaks and flexing wood sounds like splinters. 

But it resists longer than Steve. He’s grunting soon after and losing coordination and curling his head down, and Bucky can feel him expand and straighten in those incredible few seconds that aren’t exactly like his own orgasm but much like the moment just after, excitement and completion together, knowing Steve’s gonna come and then knowing that he has, when he rams home and shouts. And Bucky groans eagerness when he does and reaches down with his left hand to grip Steve’s ass and hold him deep until he’s emptied himself. 

_God_ yes. _God_ yes he’d been right about the futon, and right about SHIELD, right about Steve, and this place, and he can set aside for the moment everything wrong that got him here with Steve _inside_ him in every possible way and sighing and looking at him, staring at him, eyes wide and shining and _seeing_ him. Steve drops his hips and slides out of him and leans over him, swiping a kiss across the side of Bucky’s neck and then his lips, damp and salted with Bucky’s sweat and his own, and Bucky pulls his lip between his teeth for the taste of their exhaustion.

Steve collapses next to him. He lays splayed out on his back, and Bucky stays where he is, in much the same position. It’s a little warm to cuddle. But their arms are crossed over the sheets. Still here. Not going anywhere.

“Here we are again,” Bucky says.

“What, on shitty furniture in a shitty apartment in the city?” Steve says.

“Fuck you, I love this place. And the futon’s fine. Stood up to you, didn’t it?”

Steve chuckles and nods.

“Wasn’t actually trying to break it,” Steve says.

“No, you were just trying to break me,” Bucky says. “Nice job, by the way.”

“Says you,” Steve says.

Bucky finds Steve’s hand and interlaces their fingers.

“Could’ve been here a long time ago,” Bucky says.

“Don’t wish for that, Buck,” Steve says. “This is better.”

“Yeah. This is better.”

Bucky lifts his head and glances at the clock. It’s past midnight. He drops his head back down.

“Happy birthday,” Bucky says.

Steve laughs.

“Thanks.”

“I didn’t get you anything,” Bucky says.

“I don’t care,” Steve says.

Steve takes his hand back and props himself up on his elbows and looks at the clock himself.

“Oh, hell, it’s too late for pizza,” Steve says.

“Nah, it’s a Friday night. They’re still delivering.”

Steve shoves gently at Bucky’s shoulder.

“Get on it, then.”

Bucky shakes his head up at the ceiling.

“You could at least ask nice.”

Steve turns on his elbow, and reaches for Bucky’s face with one crooked finger, and hard as he tries he can’t keep a grin off of his face speaking.

“Please. My dearest love. Will you order a pizza? And put on a pair of pants and go downstairs when it gets here?”

God he’s a beautiful jerk. With that shit eating grin. And sure, of course Bucky’s gonna order the fucking pizza. But this loving scuffle is never gonna stop. It really isn’t.

“Well,” Bucky says. “It was sarcastic, but it was nice.”

Steve spreads his hands. What else can Bucky expect? Everything changes, and everything stays the same.

Bucky takes his phone down from the shelf, and turns it on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everybody for coming along with me! This was fun and painful and I was not expecting it to be the hundred-thousand-word endeavor it turned out to be but I don’t feel like it was a waste of six months! I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing.


End file.
